


Between the Darkness and the Dawn

by elrhiarhodan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Future Fic, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-18
Updated: 2011-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:06:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 32,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There comes a time to say goodbye, and when all good things do finally come to an end.  And yet, happiness does come, and it has a price worth paying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Between the Darkness and the Dawn**

 **Prologue - Endings Always Come Too Fast**

Their first goodbye is really the second one if you count the tragedy in the airport hanger on the Hudson River a little less than three years ago. At precisely 3:30 pm, the light on Neal’s tracking anklet goes dark and Peter unlocks it for the very last time. Against all odds, Neal has completed his parole, and his tenure as a confidential informant and consultant for the White Collar division of the FBI comes to an end.

Hughes, on the cusp of his own retirement, brings in half a case of a decent vintage of Taittinger’s (hoping that someone will return the favor so he won’t get stuck gagging on the Cold Duck the Bureau usually springs for at a retirement party), the cake is from Diane’s, and Elizabeth provides real champagne flutes, china and cutlery, because there is no way that Neal’s send-off can be served on paper and plastic.

Speeches are made, and both Bancroft and Hughes both speak warmly and eloquently about Neal’s contributions to the Bureau. Reese is particularly humorous in a dry, wry fashion; few people know that he is a regular on the dinner speaker’s circuit. Diana and Jones perform a clever parody of a typical Neal and Peter day, with Diana wearing the hat, naturally.

It is no secret that Neal isn’t going to be staying on with the Bureau. When asked, he gently explains that he plans to remain a law-abiding citizen, but that he needs to move on. He’s been confined to either his two mile radius (not a bad thing in Manhattan, but still…) or the company of an agent of the FBI for the better part of four years. Although his colleagues understand that Neal wants and needs his freedom, almost everyone hopes he will pull a rabbit out of his hat (not literally, of course) and tell them that he is staying on with the Bureau. But as the party winds down, and Peter gives his speech, a muted and muddled collection of sentences that just wandered off into silence, there was no rabbit, no surprise “just kidding.” Neal raises his glass and in a voice full of emotion, thanks everyone, from the top brass to the file clerks and then Peter, whom he awkwardly hugs goodbye.

Neal promises to stay on the right side of the law and send everyone post cards from exotic locations. He picks up his hat and walks down the stairs, into the elevator and out of their lives.

* * *


	2. All My Plans Depend On You

**Chapter One - All My Plans Depend On You**

Peter watches as Neal walks out the door and the thing inside him that started breaking when they first discussed his post-parole options, shatters like a pane of glass. Peter has tried to reason with Neal for months, he presses him about his future plans over lunch, over dinner, but Neal doesn’t listen, he doesn’t want hear it. Time after time, he simply tells Peter that he doesn’t want to overstay his welcome like a guest that lingers too long after dinner. It isn’t difficult to see that Neal’s eyes are on distant horizons, new adventures, and no offer that Peter can make will change his mind. Peter refuses to beg, and in the last weeks, he gives up asking Neal to stay and pretends to have no interest in his plans. He watches Neal slowly pack up or give away the bits and pieces of his life that accumulated in the office. The little Rodin sculpture sits on Diana’s desk, a small fortune in art books somehow make their way into Peter’s own bookcase, and the rubber band ball that Neal had once stolen from Lauren Cruz is now the property of Clinton Jones.

He supposes that it is inevitable that Neal would want to leave the city. New York has been the locus of so much that’s been tragic in his life, from his arrest for bond forgery to Kate’s death and Mozzie’s nearly fatal shooting. But in his head, Peter can’t reconcile Neal’s needs with his own desire to keep his best friend close and safe. As much as Neal has matured, learned to restrain his urges, he’s still can be a victim his impulses, acting without considering the consequences.

He laughs bitterly to himself, who’s he kidding? He doesn’t want Neal to go because he selfishly wants to keep Neal here, at his side. In the privacy of his own thoughts, he can admit that Neal fills the places within him that are left empty by the smart-but-not-as-smart agents he works with and supervises; they are products of a system designed to instill intelligent conformity rather than unconventional brilliance. As much as he likes and respects his team, including his right and left hands, none of them come close to Neal for sheer genius. Neal complements and completes him in the way that only one other person does – his wife. And she’s been onto him for years about his feelings.

Hell, she is the one who first pointed it out to him, after one very drunken anniversary dinner.

 _They stumble out of the cab and as Peter fumbles with his keys, El drapes herself over his back and giggles._

“Pity Neal isn’t here.”

 _“It’s our anniversary, honey. I think I can manage one night without the assistance of Neal Caffrey.” Peter tries to sound outraged, but that comes out more like a fit of pique._

 _“What I mean is that he’s as much your wife as I am.”_

 _Peter stops trying to fit his key in the lock and stands up, shock running through him at the idea. He looks down at El; she is like a drunken pixie – mischief and delight shining out of her eyes. Peter shudders as she slides her fingers into his palm, taking the keys out of his hand and deftly unlocking the door. After disengaging the alarm, she drags him inside and up to their bedroom._

 _Their lovemaking is hot, brutal, and Peter is relentless when El whispers dirty things into his ear. He’s more turned on than he has a right to be when she tells him how she fantasizes about watching him kiss Neal, undress Neal and make love Neal. She climbs on top of him, teasing him with slow, tight strokes, all the while describing how she’s imagined seeing the two of them have sex, and he comes in a blinding rush when she says that she’s wanted to see him sodomize Neal since the first time they had met. As he finally goes flaccid and El brings herself off for the last time with a sharp pinch to her clit, he sweeps her sweat-soaked hair from her face and looks for any sign of shame or embarrassment. There is none. She rolls off him and somehow manages to slide under his arm and under the covers in a single, well-coordinated move. As she falls asleep, she tells him not to worry, they can discuss it in the morning. Peter doesn’t sleep a wink that night._

 _The morning after, Peter is dressed and downstairs, with coffee and breakfast waiting for his sure-to-be hung over bride of twelve years. He’s prepared to let last night go, to forget the soul-shattering lust that Elizabeth created. He figures that everyone is entitled to have fantasies, and if she finds the idea of him screwing Neal into the ground exciting (and he had a hard time containing the surge of arousal that thought brings), well that’s okay. It’s not as if he never entertained the thought of El and Diana, naked and playing with each other for his private delectation. And it’s more than just lust ..._

 _Instead of the head-achy, hung over woman he expects to see, a bright and cheerful Elizabeth practically skips down the stairs and snags a cup of coffee from him._

 _“Do you want to forget about last night?” She asks him, point blank._

 _“No!” The single syllable rushes out of Peter in an emphatic huff. And as quickly as his whole being lights up at the thought of Neal, of Neal and him, of Neal and Elizabeth and him, he has to quickly dim it._

 _El must have seen the joy fade out of his eyes. “What’s the matter?”_

 _“We can’t do this. I can’t. At least, not now, not yet.”_

 _“Why not? I want this for you, I want it for myself too. If Neal’s willing, who are we hurting?”_

 _Peter hugs El tight and presses a kiss into her hair. “No one and nothing except for my career, and Neal himself. With all the problems that have been swirling around us for the past two years, the slightest hint of an inappropriate relationship is going to put me on the breadline and Neal back into an orange jumpsuit.”_

 _“So, we wait.”_

 _“Yes.” Peter says nothing more. He can wait. Patience will be rewarded._

But now, with nothing holding him back … no rules, no conflicted emotions, no nothing, there is no reward for his patience, no prize for playing by the book. He’s lost Neal as surely as a child loses a mitten in a snowball fight.

* * *

Elizabeth watches her husband watch Neal walk out the door, and she sighs. She wishes Neal hadn’t sworn her to secrecy about his plans. She knows most everything that he is planning; and while she was thrilled at first, the more she thinks about it, the more she worries. There is so much potential for failure, for it to blow up in their faces.

She can read every emotion churning inside Peter, anger, frustration, sadness, loss. She wants to tell him everything; if just to ease his mind, but she keeps Neal’s confidence and hopes she’ll not regret it. So she goes to Peter, puts her arm through his and tells him it’s time to go home. They make their way down to the parking garage and Elizabeth can barely take her eyes off Peter’s face, she can’t wait to see his reaction to the surprise waiting for him. As they approach the car, she finds herself holding her breath in anticipation.

There he is, leaning against the Taurus, a slight smile twisting his lips. It’s only been twenty minutes, but it seems like a lifetime. She can feel the tension in Peter’s arm as he stops and looks at Neal, unsure if the man is real or a mirage. That half smile broadens ever so slightly, and she lets go of Peter’s arm or he pulls away as he walks to Neal, up tight into his personal space. This is the moment that she’s been waiting for years, the moment when everything can go right or it could be smashed to pieces.

They stare at each other for a few moments. Peter raises a hand and lightly brushes the back of his fingers against Neal’s cheek, as if the other man were a wild animal, easily startled. Neal doesn’t move, he doesn’t say a word; he just gazes at Peter with unblinking eyes. Peter’s other hand comes up and he takes Neal’s fine-boned face between his palms and holds it still before sliding down to rest on his shoulders. Neal finally moves; he wraps his arms around Peter, one hand snakes under his jacket, the other reaches up to cup the back of his head.

Both men move ever so slightly closer. Peter spreads his feet, instinctively giving Neal room to step inside the shelter of his body, and he does. Elizabeth releases her breath with an audible huff and they turn to face her. She grins in delight and they return her smile, and suddenly they are all breathing in perfect synchronicity. She nods her assent and watches as they turn back to each other.

Peter’s hands return to Neal’s face, learning its contours by touch. His calloused thumbs caressing the knife-sharp cheekbones, his eyelids with their ridiculously long lashes, the blade of his nose, the cleft in chin and finally, finally those soft, beautiful lips. Neal’s mouth opens slightly, and his tongue slides out and laps at Peter’s thumb, then lightly sucks on in. Elizabeth can see the shudder that runs through her husband’s body

There, in the semi-darkness of the underground garage of the Federal Plaza building, after four years of unsatisfied sexual tension, Peter and Neal kiss. At first, it’s almost reverential, a sweet benediction between friends, but someone moans. It could be Peter, it could be Neal, or it even could be Elizabeth, and at that sound, the kiss becomes fierce, all consuming. They kiss as if there is no air to be had except that from the other’s lungs. They bite and suck and lick at each other as if there would be no food but that of each other’s flesh.

Peter pushes Neal against the side of the car, hard. He grinds against the other man, trying to imprint himself on Neal. Neal pushes back, he will not be a passive recipient of Peter’s lust, at least not this time. He has his own needs and wants and desires, and he shoves a leg between Peter’s thighs, clamps a hand on his ass and forces Peter to ride him like an obscene pony. Peter breaks the kiss and gasps for air, his eyes wild, searching.

Neal shoves himself hard against him, working his body into Peter’s, and Elizabeth can hear him chanting under his breath, _come, you bastard, come for me, come on._ She steps behind her panting, aching husband and entangles her arms with Neal’s. His knee, sliding in between Peter’s thighs, bumps against her, banging against her cunt in an irregular rhythm. Elizabeth finds the cadence of Neal’s thrusts and works herself against her husband. Her hands find their way under Peter’s jacket and she uses the straps from his holster to give herself leverage.

The three of them perform a degenerate Bolero, rubbing and grinding in perfect syncopation. Peter finally throws back his head; his lip caught in his teeth, and comes. Neal reaches around, grabs Elizabeth’s ass, one of those long fingers shoving some of her skirt into the cleft of her buttocks, feeding the material into her sensitive hole and pulling her thong panties tight against her clit. Elizabeth orgasms in a spectacular rush, and if she hadn’t been holding onto Peter, she would have collapsed onto the dirty concrete floor.

Somewhere nearby, a car alarm system beeps twice. Footsteps echo on the concrete floor and two women are laughingly discussing their Friday night planes, and the three of them pull apart. Peter rolls back against the car and pulls Elizabeth close. He’s panting and grinning like an idiot. The two of them look at Neal, and he’s the Cheshire Cat, his smile so big, so blinding that it’s as if the sun’s been trapped behind his teeth.

More car alarms are disengaged, more voices reverberate in the cavernous space, and they pile into the Taurus to make their getaway. Elizabeth pulls Peter into the back seat with her and neither of them protests as Neal gets into the driver’s seat. At some point in their encounter, he lifted the keys off of Peter. The drive back to Brooklyn is punctuated by Peter’s moans as Elizabeth tries to get sloppy seconds off her husband. He feebly pushes her hand away, complaining that he’s going to need his strength and Neal laughingly agrees.

* * *


	3. I Bruise You, You Bruise Me

**Chapter Two - I Bruise You, You Bruise Me**

Peter never felt anything quite like it; his cock up Neal’s hot, tight ass and Elizabeth’s strap-on buried in his. To fuck and be fucked, the simultaneous sensations are making his brain short circuit. El is good, hitting his prostate with almost every thrust, and judging from the moans and breathless curses pouring out of the man beneath him, he is hitting his own marks too.

“Fuck me, Peter. Don’t stop, damn it - don’t stop.”

For the past day and a half, Neal’s glib eloquence has mostly deserted him, his vocabulary reduced to obscenities, grunts, moans and “Peter” and “Elizabeth.” Peter leans down and kisses him, shoving his tongue down Neal’s throat, gagging him with his flesh as he stuffed his cock deep into his ass. El suddenly twists her hips, hitting his nut hard and he goes into overdrive, pounding into Neal without control, without finesse. Peter’s orgasm triggers his partners’, and as Neal comes, his ass clamps down on Peter’s cock. Peter repays the favor, biting hard on the sweet spot between Neal’s neck and shoulder, his hips finally shuddering to a halt. As El pulls the strap-on out of him, his cock twitches again, and he whines in a little in protest. Neal makes a similar sound as Peter slides out of his ass. Barely flaccid, Peter’s a very large man and despite the careful preparation, Neal’s ass has to be sore.

He should have felt sleepy in post-coital bliss, but instead he is fully energized, both body and spirit are willing and ready to go again.

Elizabeth leans over and looks at the two of them, her long, dark hair a sweaty curtain trailing over Peter’s chest. She swipes a finger through the ribbon of Neal’s come that decorates Peter’s chest, and licks it clean. “I don’t know about you two, but I need something more nutritious than semen.” She smirks at them. “What do you want, Thai or Chinese?”

“Chinese.” That’s Peter’s choice

“Thai.” Neal votes.

Peter just shakes his head and chuckles, _nothing’s changed_. Then Neal rubs his cheek against Peter’s shoulder, kisses his neck and says, “Chinese will be fine.”

Elizabeth gets out of bed and Peter can’t help but feel another twinge of arousal, seeing her with the black leather straps around her thighs and waist, the huge fake cock, slick with lube, jutting out between her legs. She struggles to get the buckles undone, and Neal climbs over him and out of bed to help her. That’s an even prettier sight, Neal with his arms around his wife. Peter feels no jealousy at the vision of another man - of Neal - touching his wife so intimately.

As he stands over El, working at the clasp that holds the straps in place, the dildo kisses Neal’s cock. El knows exactly what’s going on, and she frots gently against him. Neal smiles at her, and as he plants a warm, wet kiss on her shoulder, he gives her ass a tight, hard slap. The buckle finally is undone, the straps fall away, but the fake cock, a double-headed affair, stays put. Neal works it in and out a few times and Elizabeth rocks back and forth, and comes in a near silent shudder. She squeals as Neal pulls the silicone phallus out of her and nearly collapses back onto the bed.

They all make it out of the bedroom and into the shower, without somehow falling back into sex. Truthfully, the shower is way too small for the three of them and Peter starts thinking about how to expand it. The idea of having a truly luxurious set of waterworks always appealed to him, but he could never convince himself to do it. Now, with Neal here, in his arms, like a wet, slippery seal, and Elizabeth sinking to her knees, trying to pleasure both of them in such tight quarters, expansion is going to be necessary.

His stomach rumbles, embarrassingly loud and Neal starts to laugh - until his own begins to grumble. Peter can’t remember the last time they ate anything but each other - it’s quite possible that the champagne and cake in the office on Friday were it. Sex in the shower will have to be postponed for another time.

 _Time_.

Peter smiles, thinking about they had all the time in the world now. And no need to even consider sneaking around. He’ll miss having Neal by his side all day, but having him at home is enough, until he can convince him to return to the Bureau. He finishes his washing up first and as he gets out of the shower, he turns around and watches Neal soap up his wife’s hair - and again he is amazed at his total lack of jealousy. The two of them are so beautiful, so perfect together and when they look _at him_ like he is their sole reason for living, his heart aches with joy.

Peter calls in their usual order and they eat in merry informality. If not for Satchmo’s ability to masquerade as a canine vacuum cleaner in the presence of food, they may have eaten at the coffee table, sitting on the floor. From somewhere El produces a bottle of wine that is perfectly delicious with his mu shu pork and Neal’s vegetable chow fun and El’s lemon chicken, and then a second bottle that seems to sing on his palate. He smiles at Neal and Neal shrugs back; Elizabeth tries to look offended that Peter would think she couldn’t pair her wines properly, but in her ratty sweat shirt and still damp hair in a pony tail, she wears her outrage like the ruffled fur of a three month old kitten.

There is little conversation between them, even after the last bits of food are fought over. Peter smiles as El and Neal mock-duel with chopsticks over the remains of some spicy cold sesame noodles, and he leans back in his chair, satisfaction and happiness gilding the scene.

Neal looks at him and shakes his head.

“What?”

“You look like a Buddha.”

Peter pats his flat stomach, even the hearty meal he just finished couldn’t distend the rock hard abdominal muscles he worked so hard to maintain. “I think I’ve got a ways to go before reaching that stage.”

Neal laughs. “That’s not I mean. You have this look of someone who’s reached Nirvana.”

Reaching across the table, over the empty paper cartons and aluminum containers, he grabs the back of Neal’s neck and brings him close for a kiss. His lips are slightly greasy, tasting of wine and sesame oil, and the essence of what is Neal. The kiss quickly turns erotic and Peter breaks it off before he hauls Neal onto the table and fucks him amidst the detritus of their meal.

“I don’t think what we’ve been doing is an accepted path to Nirvana.” Elizabeth drily adds and pokes Peter with her chopsticks. “Why don’t you clean up here? Neal and I will try to restore some order upstairs.”

Peter blinks at his wife, feeling that there is some subtext that he’s missing. Neal winks at him before following El back up to the bedroom. Peter sighs and looks at Satchmo, waiting patiently for leftovers. “There’s nothing left for you, boy. Sorry.”

Satch whimpers and rests his head on his paws in disappointment.

* * *

“You’re going to break his heart.” Elizabeth’s voice is a tight, hard whisper.

Neal just concentrates on the pillow he’s stuffing into a clean case.

“He loves you and you’re going to leave him.” He doesn’t respond. “Look at me, Neal.”

He can’t meet her eyes. “I have to do this my way. You understand, don’t you?”

All the tension leaves her and she drops down on the bed, pulling Neal with her. “Yes, honey, I do. But I think it would have been less cruel if you had just walked away on Friday, if we hadn’t started this.” She cups his chin and forces his eyes up. “Don’t think that there won’t be consequences for what you’re about to do.”

“Believe me, Elizabeth I know there will, I can see exactly what’s going to happen. But I have to do this. I’ll never be sure, otherwise.”

Swallowing hard, El hugs Neal close. “Just remember your promise, please.”

They finish remaking the bed, and as they pull up the comforter, Peter joins them, joking that they shouldn’t bother.

Their lovemaking that night is sweeter, less frantic, but no less intense. They take the time to learn each other’s bodies. El discovers the band of freckles on Neal’s shoulder and Peter finds that Neal’s extremely ticklish at his waist. The rest of the night is devoted to oral pleasures until they finally fall asleep, a sweaty, satiated pile of arms and legs.

El enjoys being sandwiched between her husband’s big muscular body and Neal’s narrower frame. It makes her feel delicate, precious and protected. She also knows the moment that Neal gets out of bed. She listens to the shower running and contemplates the situation. This morning is going to be difficult to say the least and she hopes the fallout won’t too ruinous. If Neal leaves without saying goodbye, Peter’s going to be devastated and she’s the one that will be picking up the pieces.

The shower’s turned off and she hears Neal moving around, the old pipes singing a little as the sink faucet runs. Finally, everything goes quiet again and Neal glides back into the bedroom fully dressed except for his shoes. As he picks them up, he sees her eyes are opened and they both look at Peter, who’s deep asleep. She shakes her head, silently willing Neal to wait downstairs. He nods in understanding and El breathes a sigh of relief as she hears him open the back door and call for Satchmo.

A strategic placement of a chilly foot on a warm and tender part of Peter’s body results in a wakeful and slightly grumpy husband. It doesn’t take much to convince Peter to get out of bed and into the shower with the promise of her banana and blueberry pancakes. She grabs her robe and goes downstairs to find Neal on his cell phone, calling for a cab.

“How long?”

“About five minutes.” Neal pulls a sealed envelope out of his jacket pocket. “This is for Peter.” He tries to hand it to her.

“No, we agreed. You don’t run off without saying goodbye. You give that to him yourself.”

Neal takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I can’t do it, Elizabeth. I can’t. You know it won’t take much for Peter to make me stay. And so much of me wants to stay. To bury myself here, with you.”

“So stay. Would it be so bad?” El asks, but knows the answer.

“No, it wouldn’t be bad at all. But what would I be? Neal Caffrey, the FBI’s poster child for reformed con artists, or Neal Caffrey, human being and contributing member of society?” He gives her a watery smile. “If I don’t go, I’ll never find out.”

Elizabeth’s lips are a thin, tight line. “If you think you need to go, then go. But you will wait for Peter. That’s our agreement. You don’t walk away again without saying goodbye.” She hisses at him, angry now. “You’re not leaving Peter with nothing but cold words printed on cheap paper.” She grabs his wrist, nails digging in, rage giving her strength to crush bones through skin and muscle.

They are caught there, in a _tableau vivant_ of anger as Peter comes downstairs.

* * *

Peter sniffs and can’t find the scent of breakfast. He wonders if Neal and El are having a little morning delight without him and thinks about playing the outraged husband. He then thinks about how much fun it will be to punish both of them. Maybe tie Neal up with the sash from El’s bathrobe…

But he doesn’t find them _in flagrante delicto_. Instead, he sees an angry Elizabeth gripping Neal’s wrist like a vise. And Neal is wearing his suit, vest and tie…

“Aren’t you a little overdressed for a Sunday morning, Caffrey?” Neal looks up at him, shocked and guilty.

“Peter…”

He’s heard his name in that pleading tone before, many times. He hates it; it reminds him of an animal in pain, trapped and begging. It reminds him of how Neal spoke his name that day at the airport, those seconds before the airplane exploded and their lives changed. “What’s going on?”

Elizabeth lets go of Neal’s wrist and he rubs it. “Peter, I have to go.”

“What do you mean, go?” A hard ball of fear and anxiety forms in his stomach.

“I’m leaving this afternoon for Europe.”

Peter freezes. After he stopped trying to convince Neal to stay at the Bureau, he never asked him about his plans. He figures that Neal would want to travel, but when he was waiting for them at the car Friday evening, he thought that Neal would be staying. Peter swallows against his anxiety, after four years, the man certainly deserves a chance to explore his freedom. “How long… when will you be back?”

Neal won’t look at him. He won’t look at Elizabeth. He seems to find the yellow ceramic bowl on the mantle very compelling.

“Neal?” Peter suddenly knows the answer, but he needs to hear it. “Tell me, Neal. When will you be back? A couple of weeks, a month? Longer?”

“I don’t know.” He finally meets Peter’s eyes. “I don’t know when I’ll be back. But…”

Peter doesn’t let him finish the sentence. The fear in his belly turns into a pit of corrosive rage. “But what, Neal? I don’t understand you… I don’t understand how you could do this. What about your life here? I thought you wanted this – the white picket fence, the family life. I thought that was why you were waiting for us on Friday.” Peter scrubs at his face. “Tell me, damn it, were you going to leave without saying goodbye?”

Neal says nothing and Peter can read the truth on his face.

“After everything, after all we’ve been through - you would do this to me? To us?” He wanted to punch something, someone. A car horn honks, the sound painfully loud on the quiet Sunday morning. The yellow-orange cab was a blur through the sheer curtains of the living room window. “You are a piece of work, Caffrey. I thought I knew you. I thought you were better than this. But I was wrong. You’re still the same thoughtless, immature, irresponsible _child_ that lied and cheated and stole until he was sent to prison.”

Neal’s back went up. “Peter, that’s not fair. This is not about you – or about us. It’s something I have to do.”

He doesn’t want to hear Neal’s excuses. “It’s always about you. What _you_ want, what _you_ need. Have you ever, in your entire misbegotten life, given a damn about anyone else?”

He hears Elizabeth’s gasp. He knows he’s going beyond the pale, but his pain, his rage is carrying him deep into dark territory. “You are a sorry excuse for a man, and an even sorrier excuse for a friend. I never thought I’d say this but if I had the chance to make that choice again, right now, I wouldn’t take that meeting you asked for. I don’t care that I could still be chasing the Dutchman. All your talent, all your brilliance isn’t worth the hell you’ve put me through these past four years.”

“Peter - no. You can’t mean that.”

He ignores Neal’s shocked whisper. The rage feels too good.

“Go - get out. Your so-called life is waiting for you. I never want to see you again.”

Neal just stands there and Peter grabs his arm, pulling him through the front door, literally throwing him out of the house. Peter watches in grim satisfaction as Neal stumbles and nearly falls down the steps. Neal tries to go back inside but he blocks him, forcing him backwards down to the street.

“Peter, please listen to me. I have to do this. You have to understand.”

Peter hears the pain and the pleading, but he’s sick and tired and angry. “No, Neal, I don’t _have to understand._ For years, I’ve been listening to your excuses. You say you’ve never lied to me, but everything about you is a lie. Time after time, I’ve put myself on the line for you. I’ve risked everything and for what? A good fuck and _adios,_ it’s been nice knowing you?”

“It’s not like that, Peter. No – you’re wrong. I’m doing this for …”

Peter doesn’t let him finish. “Shut up, Neal. Just shut up and go.”

Neal finally looks angry and Peter hopes he takes a swing at him. Instead, Neal tries to give him an envelope. “What’s this? A Dear John letter?”

“No, Peter - it’s everything I can’t seem to say.” Neal isn’t pleading anymore. The quiet resignation in his voice makes Peter angrier.

“I don’t want it - I won’t read it. I don’t want to hear anything you have to tell me, you worthless little shit. And guess what, when you’re caught stealing or forging or conning, don’t come running to me. Don’t use my name, don’t call me, don’t ask for anyone’s help at the Bureau. You’re _persona non grata_ , Neal. You get caught; you can rot in prison for all I care. And you will get caught - a leopard doesn’t change his spots.”

Neal holds out the letter to Peter but he won’t take it. It drops to the ground and Peter refuses to look down, but the white rectangle is a spot burning in his mind’s eye. He tries to look everywhere but at Neal, who finally turns to get into the waiting cab. Elizabeth, who had followed them onto the street rushes past him to Neal. He steps back, not wanting to hear them, but apparently she has nothing to say. She just slaps Neal hard, once, across the face and turns her back to him.

Neal gets into the cab and the sound of the car door shutting is like a gunshot. Peter goes back inside and doesn’t see El pick the envelope up from the sidewalk. He sees nothing but a cold, angry darkness.

* * *


	4. When the Singer’s Gone, Let the Song Go On

**Chapter Three - When the Singer’s Gone, Let the Song Go On**

Peter doesn’t remember much about the rest of that day. He goes about his business, trying to pretend that everything is normal. Trying and failing. Neal is everywhere he looks – the dining room, the couch, the bedroom, the bathroom. And then he sees El’s red-rimmed eyes and feels justified in his anger, his rage. He could, maybe, forgive Neal for walking out on him; but no one hurts his wife like this and gets away scott-free.

The next day, the first day at work without Neal, is hard and made harder throughout the week when his team keeps mentioning him, speculating, wondering. Jones jokes about setting up a betting pool for who gets the first postcard and where it’s from and by midday, a signup sheet has been posted in the break area. Peter wants to tear it down and rip it to shreds; he wants to snap at them to stop talking about Neal, he wants…

He wants to forget about him. To forget about the joy he always took in Neal’s friendship. To forget about the pleasure had had from his body. To forget about the quicksilver genius, the mind that was side by side with his, finishing his sentences, starting the thoughts that had barely formed.

Peter makes it through that day, and the next, and the next one after that. And then a week goes by and a sort of rhythm returns to his days. A new case, something that doesn’t involve art or intricate confidence schemes lands on his desk. It’s a straight-forward securities fraud, albeit one that stole from investors on a massive scale. The files sent over from the SEC are delivered by the truckload and a war room is set up on a separate floor. The next two months are spent cataloging and cross-referencing documents, and every spare hand is put to the task, without regard for rank or seniority. Diana threatens to go back to D.C., but the joke dies on her lips at Peter’s grim stare.

The work is mind numbing, but time consuming in a way that allows Peter to take refuge in it. Even though it’s a team effort (as all such cases are), one that would normally be punctuated by random chatter, there is none of that, at least when Peter is around. He’s thankful, because he has no patience for random chatter. And the silence means that no one is talking about Caffrey anymore, at least not within his hearing. In fact, no one really talks to him; they are all too wrapped up in the case. Or at least that’s how it seems to Peter. He doesn’t realize that he’s become a grim and forbidding figure in the office.

So he’s left alone with his thoughts for most of the day, and there are times that he finds himself thinking about Neal. Not remembering, but constructing elaborate scenarios about about what would happen and how he’d react if he heard from him now.

Sometimes he imagines encountering Neal in the city and giving him the cut direct…

 _“Peter! How are you?” He’s at some fancy function that El’s managing, and there is Neal, a glass of champagne in his hand, a bright smile on his face. Peter turns his back on him and leaves the room._

It’s not hard to imagine that Neal’s gone back to his criminal habits. As he told him, a leopard doesn’t change his spots…

 _It’s a cold, wet November night and Peter’s on stake-out duty in the van. He’s with Jones and Diana, listening to a group of idiotic stock brokers talk about how they’re about to fleece the dummy corporation the FBI’s set up as part of a sting. Diana suddenly gasps and points to one of the monitors. There’s someone rappelling down the side of the building next to the one they are watching. The man’s dressed all in black, but it’s unmistakably Caffrey. Peter reaches for his phone and calls his friend, Captain Shattuck of the NYPD, to report a burglary in progress._

Occasionally, Peter’s daydreams turn vicious…

 _They are on vacation, this time it’s April in Paris. He’s walking arm and arm with El under the shadow of the Eiffel Tower. The day is beautiful, the setting magical. The only annoyance is the souvenir hawkers, loud and pushy, trying to sell cheap replicas of the famous structure. As they make their way to the Quai Branly and their waiting river boat, El’s distracted by the numerous artists set up along the bank of the Seine. She says something about bringing home a nice piece of artwork, and he mutters that they are going to get ripped off. But El’s no one’s fool and she chats in French with this artist and that one. She’s particularly taken by a painting hanging on the fence and Peter has to agree that it’s the best of the ones they’ve seen. Unfortunately, the artist is no where to be found. They wait a few minutes and finally someone shows up. It’s Neal, and he looks like shit. Hair greasy, eyes bruised and his face is mostly covered by a weedy scruff. There are also bruises around his neck in the shape of fingerprints. Elizabeth gasps but Peter shakes his head. “We don’t need anything from a second rate hack like this.”_

Neal may think he’s the smartest man in the room, but Peter’s always been at least one step ahead of him when he least expects it…

 _He’s going through a stack of BOLOs and he’s not shocked to find one for Steve Tabernacle, suspected for bank fraud in Los Angeles. He picks up the phone and calls Michael Stokes, the head of the WC division in the SoCal field office. Neal never knew that he knew about Tabernacle and Daventry and a whole host of other aliases. It doesn’t take long to transmit the data he had, as well as current photographs. But strangely, he doesn’t tell Stokes that Steve Tabernacle is Neal Caffrey and Neal Caffrey worked with him for four years as a consultant and a CI. Peter can’t understand why, in his fantasy, he can’t take that last step._

Two weeks after Neal’s send-off, the first postcard arrives, addressed to the entire office. It’s from the Louvre, and it’s a picture of the Nike of Samothrace. Neal writes, _“Thinking of all of you when I look at this. It’s something too big to steal, too hard to forge. Best of everything, Neal.”_

A week later, another postcard, this one from Monet’s gardens at Giverny. _“Yes, I’m tempted, but I’ll have to learn to make do with the overpriced repros they sell in the gift shop. Love to all, Neal.”_

The cards keep coming, occasionally two and three a day, from all over France, as if Neal’s afraid they’s forget about him if he doesn’t keep in constant contact. Susan, the file clerk, prints out a map and sticks flag pins in it, tracking Neal’s progress. Sometimes, late in the day, after everyone has gone home, Peter goes into the break area and looks at the postcards. He tells himself he’s just checking to see if they are really from Neal, and really mailed from France. He wouldn’t put it beyond Neal to have the cards sent from some mailing service, just to make everyone happy that he’s been thinking about them and has stayed in touch. But the cancellation marks are authentic and when Peter rubs his thumb over the word “love” it feels like he’s been burned.

Six weeks after he throws him out of his house and out of his life, just as the first rush of anger has started to ebb, Peter had his first nightmare about Neal…

 _“Honey, answer your cell phone.” Peter rolls away from Elizabeth’s elbow digging into his ribs. He looks at the clock, it’s nearly 3 am. The phone keeps buzzing on the nightstand. Caller ID says “Dan Shattuck.”_

 _“Peter, I’m sorry to wake you, but there’s a John Doe in the morgue.”_

 _Peter rubs the crust from his eyes, “That’s news you need to share with me in the pre-dawn hours? I’m sure that there are lots of John Does in the county morgue.”_

 _The voice on the other end doesn’t respond to his snarkiness. “Peter, I’m sorry to tell you but I think its Neal Caffrey. We can’t make a positive identification, the teeth have been smashed and the hands mutilated.”_

 _Peter doesn’t say anything at first. Finally he asks, “What was the cause of death?”_

 _The silence from the other end is deafening. “The pre-mortem trauma is extensive, and the cause of death is massive internal hemorrhaging from rape with a foreign object, possibly a tire iron.”_

 _“Why do you think it’s Caffrey?” Peter’s voice is rock steady._

 _“The killer carved ‘snitch’ into the body and one of your business cards was found stuffed up the corpse’s rectum.”_

 _Peter thinks for a moment and tells his friend, “I’ll meet you at the morgue at 8 am. There’s no need to rush over. Dead is dead.” He disconnects the call and goes back to sleep._

 _Peter’s about twenty minutes late and when Dan looks at him, concern and sympathy in his eyes, he finds no trace of grief in Peter’s. They walk together to the cold room and the coroner’s assistant opens the drawer. Despite the massive amount of bruising, it’s easy to tell that the body in the cold drawer was Neal. Peter lifts an eyelid and double checks._

 _“Yes, that’s Caffrey.” He shuts the drawer and walks away._

Peter wakes in a cold sweat, his heart pounding.

 _He gets an email from Interpol. A man matching Neal Caffrey’s description has been found hanging from a noose in a cold water walkup near the Gare du Nord. There’s a suicide note addressed to FBI Special Agent Peter Burke, and a scanned copy of it has been attached._ In his nightmare, Peter deletes the message without reading the attachment and empties the trash.

The nightmares aren’t a regular occurrence, but they happen often enough. They seem to follow a pattern. Neal is dead, either through a brutal act of violence, or by his own hand. Peter learns of it well after the fact, well after the chance to have saved Neal has passed. He’s shaken to the core by these dreams; not only by Neal’s death, but by his own dispassionate and often uncaring reaction. He can’t talk to Elizabeth about them. He’s smart enough to know what they mean, and there is no reason to burden her with his inability to cope.

The mornings after these nightmares, Peter will sit in front of his computer with the homepage for Immigration Control and Enforcement waiting for his log-in. A few keystrokes, and Peter can run the passports for all of Neal’s known aliases. He knows that in a matter of minutes, he can trace Neal’s transit around the world. But he never complete the action. Neal left, he wanted to go. It’s over, it’s done. There’s nothing more to be said.

* * *

Elizabeth worries about her husband. He’s still the adoring, passionate man she married and still loves more than anyone in the world, but there’s no denying that he’s lost something. And she feels immeasurably guilty for her role in that loss. Finally, two months to the day, she confesses.

They’re on the couch, watching the Giants lose again, and Peter shuts off the television in disgust. She leans in and he wraps an arm around her. They sit together in warm, companionable silence and she’s loath to break it.

“Peter…”

“Hmmm. That’s me.”

She smiles at the old joke. “I need to talk to you about something.” Her tone is serious.

Peter looks at her, his dark eyes questioning.

“I know you’re going to be angry, but I need you to listen to everything before you react.”

Peter jests, “I’m not taking ballroom dancing lessons. We’ve already discussed that, and if you can’t get your money back, I’m not going to help you.” He reaches for the beer they are sharing.

El shakes her head, they’ve been discussing the dancing lessons for so long that it’s a running gag between them. And since she can’t find an easy way to tell Peter, she plunges in.

“I knew what Neal was planning.”

The bottle stops before it reaches his lips. “What?”

“I went to see Neal, about two months before his parole ended. I wanted to convince him to stay. I told him how you felt and how I felt.” El swallows hard. “I told him everything.”

Peter stares at her, but for the first time in a very long time, she can’t read the emotion there.

“He wanted the time with us, but he told me up front that he couldn’t stay. He needed to leave that Sunday. When we made those plans, I had no idea how much it would hurt you. How angry you’d get. I should have seen that, I’m so sorry. I should have stopped him or made Neal tell you up front. I was so wrong. Please, please forgive me.”

Peter blinks a few times, puts the bottle down slowly, and gently moves a few strands of hair out of her eyes.

“You have nothing to apologize for. I figured when I saw Neal …” That’s the first time his name’s passed Peter’s waking lips in eight weeks. “… waiting in the garage, that he had to have talked with you. As for the other, well, Neal could get anyone to do anything for him. It’s not your fault.”

She wraps her arms around Peter and all the emotion she’s been holding in for weeks pours out of her. She can’t contain herself and she starts to weep, big, ugly, gagged sobs, chanting “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Peter rubs a hand up and down her back, trying to soothe her, and it helps.

The storm passes and she feels him kiss her brow, like she’s a small child who needs comfort after losing a favorite toy. “Don’t you want to know why he left?”

“No, El. Not really. Neal’s gone. He’s not coming back. Let’s move on.”

She looks up, through tear-blurred eyes and can tell that Peter’s still not ready. She wisely decides not to push.

* * *


	5. In the Darkest Night, There's a Light Beyond

**Chapter Four - In the Darkest Night, There's a Light Beyond**

“Peter, you’ll be giving a lecture at Quantico at the end of May.” One afternoon in the middle of April, Hughes walks into his office and unceremoniously gives him the news. It’s been six months since Neal left, a little less than four months since the last postcard from him arrived, letting the office know he was going to be spending some time in an ashram in India, and would be out of touch for a while.

“Me? Why?”

“Apparently your 93% closure rate is unparalleled anywhere in the Bureau and the instructors think you’d be an inspiration to the newest class of trainees.”

“Isn’t this a little last-minute? I thought the graduating lecture series would be set up months in advance.” Peter remembers his own last weeks at Quantico, cramming for exams, finishing his thesis, attending lectures given by the best of the best field agents in the country.

“They need a fill-in for Bill Carmody, he was supposed to do a talk on his successful hostage recovery rate, but he had a heart attack last week. They asked all the division heads for recommendations, and I put your name in.”

Peter looks at his old friend with narrowed eyes. Reese could be a tricky bastard, but there’s no reason why he’d lie about something like this.

“What am I supposed to talk about?”

Hughes smiles, a scary sight. “Based on my recommendations, the instructors pulled a selection of your cases, and you’ll build a lecture around them. Your syllabus should be in your inbox as we speak.”

Peter couldn’t resist checking, and sure enough, there are several emails from Quantico, all with the subject matter “Winning the War on White Collar Crime - Success Stories from the New York Field Office.”

“Did you also suggest the title for the lecture?” Peter’s voice was dry. He knows a set-up when he sees one.

Hughes’ lips twitch. “Maybe. It’s time you got a little positive recognition for your work.”

“It’s not just me; I have an excellent team.” Peter’s reply is automatic and he winces. One of the key members of that team and the reason for his astronomical closure rate is no longer at the Bureau. “I’d like to take Jones and Diana with me. It’s important for the trainees to understand the importance of teamwork and shared recognition.”

Hughes considers Peter’s request. “Good idea. I’ll put in travel requests for the three of you.”

As soon as Hughes leaves, Peter opens the email marked “syllabus,” and groans. Most of the cases listed are from the last four years. In fact, it looks like the Burke/Caffrey greatest hits list. The Dutchman, Govat and the data chip smuggled in the evening gown, the stolen Iraqi antiquities, several boiler room scams, the Architect, the college professor who was running a ring of art thieves, the crooked politician with the prostitute ring, a bunch of art forgery cases, the Gless kidnapping, even though that technically wasn’t a white collar crime. He looks through the list again and something strikes him. None of the cases listed have any ties to Fowler, Mentor or even tangentially to the music box. The theft from _Le Joyau Precieux_ is not on the list, nor is the Sullivan mortgage scam.

He’s also intrigued to see that with the exception of the Dutchman, cases where he knew Neal had enlisted Mozzie’s help are missing.

 _Nah. Just an interesting coincidence._ Peter calls in Jones and Diana and tells them that they’ve got five weeks to write up a three-hour lecture on a dozen of the listed cases, and to pull in a few that aren’t on the syllabus. Teamwork’s all well and good, but there is a reason for having subordinates.

Two weeks later, they turn in a rough first draft, and Peter’s annoyed, to put it mildly.

“What is this?” He tosses the notes on his desk in disgust.

Clinton and Diana look at each other and back at Peter. Diana answers for them. “It’s the lecture you asked for.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “And those who say that a degree from Harvard isn’t what it used to be are apparently right. This is appalling. Especially from my two best agents.” Peter glares at them.

Jones clears his throat. “Maybe if you could be more specific, sir.”

“It seems that these cases were resolved without some of the key players. Or should I say, without a key player. Neal Caffrey. Remember him? The guy wore vintage suits, a hat, and sat at the first desk for four years.”

Neither Diana nor Jones would meet Peter’s eyes, but Diana answered. “We thought that it would be better off not to mention him. Neal wasn’t an agent and he went rogue so many times that it could set a bad example for the trainees.”

Peter sighed. It was a good excuse, but it was still an excuse. The two of them are looking out for him. They knew he missed Neal. Little did they know how much…

“Considering that one of the core themes of the lecture is about the effective use of CI’s, the lack of any reference to the department’s best asset is going to be strange. Go back, redo this. Neal was part of the team for four years, and he made very important contributions. Don’t overplay his role, but you don’t have to minimize it either. I want to see your next draft the day after tomorrow.”

“What about the little guy?”

“Havisham? You can leave him out. He’s never had an official status as a CI, and I don’t think he’d appreciate being the subject of a talk at Suit Training Central.”

The agents chuckled as they depart, and Peter has a quiet laugh himself. _Suit Training Central_. Something about this talk finally feels right. The nightmares have stopped. Maybe it was time to actively start looking for Neal.

Peter wonders, not so idly, what he would say to Neal if he saw him now. He’ll have to apologize, of course. His stomach still twists at the memory of what he said to Neal, and a weak wave of anger rises up. Anger at himself, mostly, but he still has some for Neal for leaving. Elizabeth, despite her collusion, is blameless in his eyes.

He’s reminded of an old saying of his father’s, “never assume, you make an ‘ass’ out of ‘u’ and ‘me’.” And that is exactly what he did. He assumed. Neal never said anything about staying, and in retrospect, it was almost ludicrous to think that he would stay. Peter wonders what that letter said, but it’s too late for that. Too late for a lot of things.

He swings his chair around and stares out at the darkening city skyline and allows himself to daydream …

 _The case is complex, a year-long series of thefts involving antique silverware. There have been a dozen break-ins, all executed when the owners were out of town, which suggests an inside job if they had all been using the same alarm service. This time was different; there is a homeowner’s dead body to deal with. The coroner’s office was just finishing up with the crime scene when Jones comes up to him and whispers frantically in his ear._

 _“You won’t believe who’s here!”_

 _Peter looks at his agent, who is as excited as a boy waiting to see Santa Claus._

 _“Since I’m not the Amazing Kreskin and can’t read minds, maybe you’d like to tell me?_

 _“It’s Caffrey. Neal. He’s here.”_

 _Peter can’t for the life of him imagine why Neal would be at his crime scene._

 _Jones hands him a business card._

 _**Neal Caffrey** _

  
_

Asset Recovery Agent

_   
_

Under Exclusive Contract to Sterling - Bosche, Ltd.

_

_“Looks like Caffrey’s managed to land on the right side after all.”_

 _“Yes, Jones, I certainly have.” Neal’s voice is filled with cheerful bonhomie._

 _“Hello, Neal.” Peter’s voice is quiet. “Good to see you.”_

 _The light from Neal’s smile leeches out of his eyes, but there’s nothing in his tone to betray any ill feelings. “Peter, it’s good to see you, too.”_

 _“What brings you here?”_

 _“I am representing my client’s interests. This is the fourth time one of their policy holders has been hit and they are a trifle concerned. They asked me to liaise directly with the FBI and shadow the case until it’s solved.”_

 _Peter can’t stop the curl of happiness that building under his heart, until he sees Neal’s expression. There’s a coldness there, like nothing he’s seen on Neal’s face before. Peter tries to ignore it. “Let me walk you through this, I’d like to get your opinion.”_

 _It doesn’t take long before they fall back into the old rhythm. Neal makes a few suggestions that should have been obvious, and Jones runs to check them out. Diana hovers in the background, her eyes going back and forth from Peter to Neal and back to Peter, like they are a human ping-pong match. Peter catches her eye and dismisses her with a sharp nod. Suddenly, it’s just the two of them at a crime scene._

 _Probably not the best place to apologize._

 _He reaches to put a hand to the small of Neal’s back, to guide him out of the room. Neal steps deftly out of Peter’s reach and heads outside. The sunshine gilds Neal’s hair and Peter’s shocked to see a few strands of gray at the temples. Has that much time passed?_

 _“How have you been?” His voice is low, intense._

 _“I’ve been fine. How are you?” The tenor of Neal’s voice suggests that he couldn’t care less about the answer._

 _“Good, and El’s good to.”_

 _“Please give her my regards.” There’s no warmth or affection there, either._

 _“Listen, Neal. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said what I did. I was wrong, I was cruel and you didn’t deserve it.” Peter can’t imagine hating himself anymore than he does at that moment. This apology is so long overdue, it’s almost meaningless._

 _“Forget about it, Peter. I have.”_

 _“I can’t, Neal.”_

 _Neal turns and faces him directly. “Look, Peter - it was for the best. I needed to leave; to make a clean break. You just made it easier for all of us.” A genuine smile finally reaches Neal’s eyes. “And I’ve proved you wrong. You’re gut’s not infallible after all. I’m a solid citizen, with a respectable and productive life.”_

 _Peter looks at the man he once called friend and partner, and then called worthless. Neal did look good and truly happy. “You don’t know how delighted I am to hear that. Want to go for a drink and tell me what you’ve been doing with yourself? Or better, why not come for dinner? El would be so thrilled to see you.”_

 _Neal shakes his head. “Afraid that won’t be possible. I’m meeting Sara in about an hour; we’ve got a plane to catch.”_

 _“Sara?” That curl of joy vanishes._

 _“Yeah, Sara Ellis. Soon to be Sara Caffrey. We’re getting married next month.”_

 _Peter’s congratulations are stuck in the back of his throat. “Ummm - that’s the last thing I expected to hear.”_

 _Neal laughs and it’s genuine. “Yeah - I didn’t expect it either...but what do you know? Her missing Raphael turned up in China, of all places. She came over and apologized to me, one thing lead to another. A job offer, a few dates. With that unfinished business cleared away, we discovered how much we actually enjoyed each other’s company. I proposed just before Christmas, and she accepted.”_

 _Peter stood there, certain that his jaw had hit the pavement._

 _“Look, I’d invite you and Elizabeth to the wedding, but we’re getting married in Venice. It’s a small ceremony, close friends and family only. But if we have a party, I’ll call you. Maybe Elizabeth would be interested in planning it.”_

 _Peter just nods, cut to the quick by the comment, “close friends and family only.”_

“I’ll follow up with Jones - but I’d bet a bottle of ’82 Bordeaux that it’s the house plant service that’s your common factor. Every other crime scene had the same arrangement of bromeliads.”

 _Peter shakes the hand that Neal holds out._

 _“Take care of yourself, Peter. My best to Elizabeth.”_

 _Peter stands on the sidewalk, watching as Neal gets into a Mercedes coupe and drives off._

“Peter? Peter? Is everything all right?”

It’s Elizabeth. He’s forgotten that she was coming over and they are going to go to dinner. He scrubs a hand over his face, surprised at the wetness he finds there. _You are such an idiot, tearing up over your own daydreams_

“Sorry, I had something in my eye. My eyes.” He can tell that Elizabeth doesn’t believe a word of it, but thankfully, she doesn’t comment.

“Do you want to go out, or would you rather just head home?”

Peter wants to cringe at the concern in her voice. “No, let’s go to dinner. We really haven’t been out together that much lately.”

Over dinner, he tells El about the lecture he’ll giving at Quantico. She’s surprised that he hasn’t mentioned it before.

Peter sighs. “I was very conflicted about it. But something happened today. Something that made me realize what an idiot I’ve been.”

El’s look is pure puzzlement.

“The lecture notes that Jones and Diana prepared for me, they excised all references to Neal.”

Her eyes widened at Peter’s unprompted and voluntary use of Neal’s name.

“I’ve spent the past six months trying to pretend that Neal Caffrey never existed. I tried to deny everything that happened in the last four years. All because my feelings were hurt.”

“Peter, it was more than a case of ‘hurt feelings.’ What Neal did to you was wrong.” El clenches her napkin. She still hasn’t forgiven herself for her own role in the events that led to that disastrous confrontation.

“No, El. What he did wasn’t wrong - maybe he could have been more upfront about his plans, but he’s entitled to an independent life. He made no promises, I assumed. I only hope he can forgive me.” Peter thinks that if he tells himself that often enough, he’ll begin to believe it.

They’re quiet, each lost in thought. Elizabeth finally breaks the silence. “He was afraid.”

It’s Peter’s turn to be startled. “What do you mean, afraid. Of what?”

El doesn’t respond, but Peter can read her silence.

“Of me? Why?”

“He was afraid you’d be able to convince him to stay, that you’d change his mind. He didn’t want to go, but he felt that he needed to. He did need to.”

Peter plays some of that scene back over in his head, and then recalls the overwrought conversation they had in the airplane hanger three winters ago. “Oh.”

“Honey, ‘oh’ is right.”

“But I don’t understand why he felt he had to go. I keep trying to come up with a reason that makes sense. But nothing does.”

El reaches across the table and lays a hand over Peter’s. “I know why.”

Peter doesn’t say anything for a moment, and then finally. “Tell me.”

Elizabeth chooses her words carefully. “Neal’s made a lot of mistakes in his life. He believes that every time he tries to do the right thing, it ends up being disastrously, spectacularly wrong.”

Peter interrupts. “But these last few years, he’s done so well.”

“Only because he’s been relying on you so heavily. He been looking to you before making any decisions. Everything has been based on ‘WWPD’.”

“WWPD?”

“What Would Peter Do?”

Peter leans back in his chair, unexpectedly delighted. “So I’m his role model?”

“It’s a little more complicated than that, honey. Neal was using you as a moral crutch.”

Peter sobers up instantly. “A crutch?”

“He was afraid that he’d never be able to stand on his own and without you, he’d simply fall back into the criminal life, or worse, act without thinking. That unless he was with you, he’d never be able to tell right from wrong. He wants to be something more than the ‘FBI’s poster boy for reformed con artists.’ At least that’s how he put it to me that last morning.”

Peter feels about three inches tall. Everything cruel word he said to him that morning denigrated what Neal was trying to do. While he was thinking about domestic bliss and bathroom expansions, Neal was trying to make a real life choice, to be the person Peter always felt he could be. “I really screwed it up, didn’t I?”

El squeezes his hand. “I don’t think so. Remember that Neal Caffrey is one of the most contrary creatures under the sun. You tell him he can’t do something and he’ll just have to go and prove you wrong.”

Peter sighs. “I hope so, El. I hope so.

* * *

Peter doesn’t feel the slightest bit of guilt pulling his best agents off of several active but boring cases (including the massive securities fraud that dropped on them shortly after Neal’s departure) to prepare and polish the Quantico lectures full time. Diana and Jones need to do another two drafts before Peter is satisfied with it. He is going to speak primarily about the proper use and the role of confidential informants in resolving white collar cases, while letting those two handle the war stories.

They spend much of the train ride down to DC practicing, reveiweing some key points, anticipating the trainees’ questions and formulating stock answers. The three of them have clear memories of what the last weeks of training are like, and know that the trainees, burned out from almost five months of the intensive physical and mental curriculum, are likely to focus on the more entertaining aspects of their program.

After talking with El that night, Peter starts to reframe the last six months, no - the last year with Caffrey. Neal told El that he was afraid that Peter would always be a moral crutch, and he tries to see why he would think that. _What would Peter do?_ He never explicitely told Neal, “do what I do,” but he had certainly tried to lead by example. He thinks about those dark days when they were catching up to Fowler – when the music box was stolen out of Diana’s home, when Neal almost shot the man he thought had murdered Kate. There was a while when he believed he could never trust Neal again, when he almost hated him. Had Mozzie not been shot and they had to deal with that fallout, he may have ended their deal right then and there and sent Neal back to prison for the remainder of his sentence.

The road back to any semblance of normality between them was hard, but somehow they both pulled through and despite everything, Neal became someone he could trust again. It shocks him to realize that Neal’s “reformation” is not because Neal discovered his own moral compass, but that he borrowed Peter’s. Typical Neal.

He chuckles and Diana looks at him, trying to divine his amusement.

“Just thinking about Caffrey.”

She smiles, and so does Jones. “You haven’t laughed like that since he left.”

“Have I been that bad?”

Jones, realizing that his boss is in a surprisingly expansive mood, jumps in feet first. “You’ve been pretty grim since Neal walked out the door.”

Peter’s lips twitch. “You’ll find my apologies in your annual reviews.”

He tucks his note cards away and encourages the two to do the same. “Anymore prep and we’ll sound like robots.”

They are met in Union Station by a trainee who can barely contain his excitement. He chatters a mile a minute. “You know, when we heard that you were coming – it was like, you know, that we were going to meet Hoover himself.”

“Hoover? J. Edgar?” Peter manages to keep a straight face, Jones bites his lip and Diana covers her mouth to stifle the laugh.

The trainee plows on, completely unaware of the ridiculousness of the comparison. “Yeah – you’ve got the best closure rate in the Bureau, you work the really sexy cases, and you’re the baddest badass motherfu…” The young man finally realizes what he is about to say and turns beet red. “Ummm – you’ve got a rep that you’re a really, really tough guy.”

“Thank you.” Peter wonders where the man got his information from. There are few people who consider White Collar to be “sexy.” The bulk of their work is financial fraud; most would consider Organized Crime or even Counterterrorism to be much more interesting. And a reputation as a badass? He can’t wait to tell Elizabeth, she’s going to hurt herself from laughing so hard, and it’s quite possible with Jones and Diana to share with the office, that he’ll never live it down in the office either.

By the time they reach the FBI Academy on the Quantico facility, Peter’s ears are ringing and he’s got a headache from trying to follow the driver’s enthusiastic conversation. He is surprised to be greeted by Michael Stokes, his counterpart from the SoCal office, and a former Quantico classmate. Stokes, to Peter and his team’s infinite gratitude, dismisses the chatty trainee, and greets them warmly.

“I didn’t expect to see you here, Mike.” He claps a hand on a beefy arm and gets drawn into a manly hug. Peter introduces Jones and Diana

“Yeah, they tapped me for a field counselor this training session. It’s a nice break from the routine. And keeping up with the trainees has put me back in fighting shape.” Mike slaps lightly at a gut that’s spent a bit too long behind a desk.”

“Too much mortgage fraud can rot your brain.”

“Exactly. But that’s not something you worry about. Been following your career the past few years. Seems that every time I turn around, one of your cases is written up in the Journal.” He turns to the younger agents. “What’s it like working with Big Bad Peter Burke?”

Peter groans at the old nickname and Clinton and Diana look at him in near disbelief. Diana, thankfully remembers that she’s the daughter of a diplomat. “Peter’s a good boss – it’s an honor to work for him.”

Mike chuckles. “Good answer, good answer. Peter’s trained you well.”

Diana rolls her eyes.

After promising to meet Mike for dinner, they settle into the instructors’ quarters, and thankfully no one has to share a room. The evening is convivial. Peter knows the other field counselor by reputation, and they are soon joined by a few of the resident instructors from the Training Division. Diana, as the most recent Academy graduate, is subject to some gentle ribbing about the august company she’s keeping, but she holds her own.

It’s inevitable that the discussion turns to Neal. The resident instructors are particularly interested in what it was like to work day by day with a convicted felon. Peter demurs, claiming that he doesn’t want to steal is own thunder, but he slyly mentions the skit that his senior aides performed at Caffrey’s farewell party. It doesn’t take much convincing to get the pair of them to recreate it. The result is funnier than the original performance, for a multitude of reasons, the least of which is that Jones and Diana are a bit drunk and Diana needs to substitute the infamous black trilby with a navy FBI ball cap.

They eventually excuse themselves and head to back to their rooms – the lecture is set to begin at 9 am, and none of them want to appear less than perfect for their waiting students.

Peter starts off with a bang, surprisingly comfortable in the teaching/lecturing role. He speaks for nearly an hour and turns the podium over to Jones, who entertains the class with the case of the college professor who was replicating famous criminal MOs and using his students as the actual thieves. This is a particularly amusing matter to relate, since it had given nearly his whole team the opportunity to go undercover.

Peter looks out at the auditorium filled with fresh, eager faces and something catches his eyes. Up in the back row, there is a trainee, male, mid-30’s, with dark hair and fair skin. The lighting and distance makes it impossible to see the color of his eyes, but there’s something about the set of his shoulders, the way he’s leaning back in his seat. _Neal?_

They pause for a brief break and a number of eager trainees rush the podium. By the time Peter finishes answering questions, he’s completely lost track of the man he thinks may be Neal.

The next session goes well, and after Diana gives her portion, there is a formal Q&A. Peter’s not surprised that many of the questions are about Neal. Like the instructors last night, the trainees are curious about what it was to work with a convicted felon.

“Neal Caffrey seems like he was quite integral to your operation. How have you replaced him?”

Peter thinks for a moment. “Mr. Caffrey was unique, his contributions will be hard, if not impossible to duplicate. But the Division uses a number of CIs and we will acquire more assets as needed.”

There are a few questions about the cases that Jones and Diana presented and Peter uses the lull to scan the audience. He sees no one that looks like the man he thought could be Neal. It must have been his imagination. He has no reason to think that Neal would be at the FBI Academy, it isn’t as if he could become an agent. Then his attention is caught when someone asks about the sting they ran on the corrupt politician. The trainee uses the phrase “bad cop - good criminal” and Diana, who had presented the case, is confused and looks at Peter.

He answers the question himself, but something niggles at him. He forgets about it with next question, which spooks him. “If Neal Caffrey were arrested again, would you offer him the same deal?”

“No.” He gives no further explanation, and the instructors take that as a signal that the lecture is over.

Peter’s grateful that the trainees’ schedule doesn’t permit them to linger. The last question has really thrown him. The thought of Neal, back in prison is disturbing, especially now that he knows how badly Neal wants to stay straight, to stand on his own.

Diana and Clinton use the time at Quantico to do their quarterly weapons recertification, which leaves Peter with a few hours before they need to head back to D.C. Just enough time to do the Yellow Brick Road.

Peter has made it a point to do the challenging course every time he comes down to Quantico; it’s a brutal test of physical stamina that both exhausts and exhilarates him. He’s done it twice with Jones, once with Diana and almost a dozen times with other probies and agents. This would be the first time he’s running it alone since his days as an FBI trainee, and it seems fitting, somehow.

About five minutes into the course, Peter catches a glimpse of another runner through the trees, maybe a minute ahead of him. He doesn’t bother picking up the pace; the sensation of going solo is pleasant. He figures he’ll catch up with the other runner once he hits the first set of traps, but he never does. Through the bear trap and the obstacle courses, the wall climbs, he sees the man ahead of him, but always out of reach. Somewhere along the fourth punishing uphill mile, Peter has convinced himself that the other runner is Neal. He pushes himself to catch up, but when he reaches the top of the last hill, with its infamous twelve-foot tall cargo net, Peter’s all alone, the other runner has disappeared. He stands there, looking at the last obstacle – the combat crawl under barbed wire, through a muddy trench, and shakes his head. In sixteen years, he’s never failed to finish the course and he’ll be damned if he starts now.

Peter’s filthy, covered in mud and sweat soaked, and never so grateful to see Clinton Jones waiting with an off-road vehicle to take him back to quarters.

“Boss, anyone ever tell you you’re more than just a little bit crazy? No one does the Yellow Brick Road by himself.”

The drive back to Union Station is mercifully quiet. The trainee who is driving this time is the strong, silent type and does not pepper his passengers with questions. Peter lets Diana sit up front and spends the forty-minute ride in a semi-doze and thinking about nothing, too exhausted to contemplate the ghost he’s been chasing all day.

The train is pulling out of 30th Street Station in Philadelphia when Peter remembers what bothered him about the next to last question; the one where someone had asked about “bad cop - good criminal.” It hits him that the irreverant name of the scheme Neal laid out to him was never used in the official write up or his notes. It’s certainly not something that a wet-behind-the-ears trainee who’s been stuffed to the gills with law and order would come up with on his own. So how the fuck did he know to ask about it?

Peter’s brain goes in circles, the quiet susurration of the train’s wheels helps him think but doesn’t help him find answers. Diana’s sleeping, Jones is watching a movie on his iPad and he can’t shake the feeling somehow that Neal was there, at Quantico.

It’s well after 11 p.m. when the Acela pulls into Penn Station and Diana and Jones take off. Peter’s got another hour’s travel to Brooklyn. Except that Elizabeth’s waiting for him at when he climbs up from the platform. She’s dressed in a track suit that’s seen better days, her hair’s pulled back into a sloppy ponytail, and the tennis shoes are the ones she wears to take Sachmo out. And Peter thinks she’s the most beautiful woman in the world.

He greets her with a passionate kiss. “Have I told you how magnificent you are lately?”

She bops him on the nose with an elegant finger and replies, “All the time, but it certainly bears repeating.”

At this hour, the drive home takes less than twenty minutes, and Peter remembers nothing about it, or about getting home and climbing into bed.

At three a.m.; however, he’s wide awake and his brain is going through an endless loop - the mysterious trainee - “bad cop - good criminal” - the runner on the Yellow Brick Road. Peter lies there until the alarm goes off at six. He kisses El on the shoulder, and she rolls away in sleepy annoyance. By seven, Peter’s out the door and in the office a half-hour later. He starts sorting through the email that accumulated in the day and half he was out, and he opens a message from the Academy, thanking him and his team for their excellent presentations. There’s a link to the course material and Peter idly clicks on the one for the case files, and finds his answer to the question that’s been haunting him. For some reason, Neal’s notes were included in the material provided to the trainees on the Jennings case, and there - plain as day – is the scheme laid out end-to-end, and titled **“Bad Cop - Good Criminal.”**

Mystery solved, Neal was not at Quantico. And Peter’s unutterably depressed.

* * *


	6. It's a Fine Line

**Chapter Five – It’s a Fine Line**

After Quantico, the summer flies by, not for any particular reason other than the sense that time is simply speeding up as he gets older. It feels like there was barely a week between Memorial Day and Independence Day, and now Labor Day is on the horizon. Not that this summer was particularly noteworthy. Neither too hot nor too cool. In fact, the only thing that was remarkable was the resumption of the postcards from Neal. They came to the office in a steady stream. He was in Asia for most of June and July, and the last few postcards are from Scandinavia and filled with Neal’s delight in the almost endless daylight. Diana receives a handmade birthday card from Neal and so does the file clerk, Susan. A manila envelope filled with origami animals and a matching ark is addressed to Hughes, who takes an odd delight in setting it up in his office. Peter birthday comes and goes and he gets nothing.

On a Sunday evening, early in August, he’s stretched out on a lounger on the back patio, El’s beside him. They’re replete from dinner; grilled steak, fresh corn and salad. The air is warm and humid and the cicadas are buzzing, the sound rising and falling like a passing train.

“Do you know we’ll have been married for fifteen years in October?”

Peter shakes his head in disbelief. It seems like it was just yesterday that they were enjoying themselves in Belize (and he brutally shuts down any memory of Neal during those intervening years). _Where has the time gone?_

El takes his hands in hers and Peter has the sensation of something momentous. “I’d like to do something really special for our anniversary.”

“What ever you want, honey.” He’s relieved. If El picks out her present, his life becomes a lot easier.

“I’d like to go for Italian.”

Now Peter’s puzzled. “Italian food? That’s not particularly special. We don’t have to wait for our anniversary. And you don’t even have to hold up a sign.”

El puts on a serious business face. “I’d like go for Italian food in Venice. Venice, Italy.”

Peter freezes. _Venice_. Not his favorite city. It's difficult and crowded with tourists almost year-round. He’s is a New Yorker, accustomed to streets that run north-south and east-west. He likes order, and expects his environment to follow a certain pattern. Venice has no pattern. It's full of twists and turns and streets that end without rhyme or reason and where people jump off bridges and land on top of passing boats like they're extras in a James Bond movie.

Elizabeth climbs into his lap. “I really want to go to Venice. I always have - and it still aggravates me that you spent our fourth anniversary there, without me.”

“I was chasing Neal - it was the first time we thought we had a bead on his plans before he executed them.” _Always Neal… It’s always about Neal._ There’s no anger in that thought, no bitterness either. Just resignation.

“You almost caught him that time, too.” El rubs her cheek against his chest.

“Yeah - I was about ten feet away from grabbing him.” It was also the first time he’d laid eyes on Caffrey in the flesh. The memory of that day is etched in his brain. A beautiful young man, with pure joy shining out of his eyes, the grin on his lips that will someday becomes so familiar. That is moment when they are both frozen; and then he springs over the handrail, disappearing. Peter remembers the feeling of absolute shock that Neal would jump like that, and then the sound of the passing water taxi and the sight of Neal lightly perched on the boat’s metal canopy. It still has the power to take his breath away. Only the vision of Neal jumping out of the fourth story window into the bakery awning can compete.

Peter shakes his head, trying to dispel the memory. “You really want to go?”

“Yeah - I do.”

“Okay - then we’ll go. I have the time.”

El straddles him and captures his face between her palms. “Thank you, thank you.” She punctuates her gratitude with kisses.

Peter runs his hand under her shirt and undoes her bra in one smooth move.

“Ooh, Dr. Magic Hands.”

Peter hums as he presses kisses down El’s neck and gently nibbles on her ear. “I’ve still got the touch, babe?” He bites down gently on her earlobe.

El squeals in pleasure, there’s no need to answer.

* * *

Peter lets Elizabeth make all of the travel arrangements. Over the years, she’s built up a network with contacts all over the world, and she uses them unabashedly to get upgrades for everything from the car service to the airport, to business class seating on their flight, to a two-week stay in an exclusive five-star hotel. El tells him about their plans; she’s excited as a teenager about to go off to college. Peter says nothing about the cost of the trip. They both make good livings, and truth be told, El’s take home from her business is nearly twice his. They can afford it, and a vacation like this is not something they’ll do every year.

Three weeks before their departure date, at the end of the day, Hughes calls Peter into his office and asks him to shut the door and sit down.

“I have something I need to tell you, Peter.”

Peter has a feeling he knows what’s coming.

“I’m retiring at the end of the year. I’ve tendered my resignation to Bancroft.”

This was what he was expecting to hear. “Congratulations, Reese.”

His boss smiled wryly. “It’s about time, eh? I think I’m a little past my sell-by date”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, but thirty-five years is a lengthy career by anyone’s standards.”

Hughes nodded. “I probably should have gone a few years ago, but it’s just been too interesting around here. Wife’s been after me to settle down, take it easy. Do some traveling.”

“That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Peter, you have no idea. She wants to get an RV and drive across the country. I can’t imagine anything I’d like to do less. Do you know how much it will cost in gas and tolls just to get out of New York?”

Peter grins. The thought of Reese Hughes in casual clothes and behind the wheel of a recreational vehicle was almost impossible to envision. The man wears his suits like they are a second, more natural skin.

“I also have some other news.”

“Oh? Is everything all right?” Peter gets concerned. He has no clue what this other news could be.

“Nothing to worry about, Peter. I’ve recommended to Bancroft and the Executive Committee that you be appointed as my replacement.”

He sucks in his breath. “This is … unexpected.”

“They’ve agreed. You take over as SAIC effective January 2nd.”

Peter’s truly surprised. Despite his stellar closure rate, his record has suffered quite a few dents and dings. _Why does it always come back to Neal?_

“I know what you’re thinking. The last few years have taken their toll. But Bancroft is one of your biggest supporters, almost as much as I am.”

Peter is touched and surprised. He has always liked Hughes’ boss. Like Reese, the man never plays politics. But he had no idea that Bancroft was his advocate.

Reese raises his eyebrows at a Peter’s expression. “James plays his cards close, but he was particularly adamant about promoting you. He feels that you are too important an asset to lose.”

“Lose? I have no plans on going anywhere.”

Reese goes over to the credenza, and takes a bottle of scotch and a pair of highball glasses out from behind some law books. “Shhh, don’t tell anyone.” He pours them each two fingers and hands a glass to Peter.

“How long to you thing you’d last here with a by-the-books bureaucrat running the show, or some political appointee riding herd on you? You’d be gone within the year.”

This is something that Peter has never considered. A new broom would be bound to make changes, generally unpleasant and unwelcome ones. Hughes is right, he isn’t the type of man who’d be able to work under someone’s thumb.

“Face it, Peter – you’ve been running the caseload in this office in all but name for the past few years. I’ve been content to administrate and let you do the heavy lifting.”

“And as of January 2nd, I’ll get to do both, right?”

“Just think, budgets and staffing recs and forward planning, meetings with OMB. Plus whatever paperwork Bancroft doesn’t want to handle is going to land on your desk. Think you’re up for that?”

“Paperwork, isn’t that what subordinates are for?” Peter takes a sip of scotch and tries not to grimace at the taste.

“Now you’re thinking like a good manager.”

The two men chuckle at that, and fall silent.

“Go home, give Elizabeth the good news – if you consider this good news.”

“Longer hours, more responsibilities – it’s a mixed bag. But thank you – for everything.”

“You’re welcome, Peter. You deserve it.”

“What’s the old curse? _May you get everything you deserve?_ ”

Hughes downs the rest of his scotch and pours the remnants of Peter’s glass into his own. “And then some.”

* * *

“Honey, do you have our passports?” El calls down to him from their bedroom. She’s going through her checklists for the fourth time and Peter’s getting ready to tear his hair out.

To humor her, he confirms that the passports and the printed copies of their e-tickets are, in fact, in the breast pocket of his jacket. “Yes honey, I have our passports, our tickets, a copy of the itinerary, and the list of telephone numbers you asked me to hold onto.”

El finally comes downstairs, in a fetching, but comfortable dress. They are flying business class and she says that they shouldn’t look like the schlumps who are packed into coach like sardines. Peter would have much preferred to travel in jeans and a sweatshirt, but Elizabeth insists on at least a sport coat and a nice shirt.

When he grumbles, all she says is “You’re so hot, I like to show you off. I want to make all those sweet young things with their fat, rich sugar daddies jealous.”

Peter shakes his head, for the life of him he has no idea where El’s getting her ideas about international air travel. And then he worries a bit. While he’s never really been a strictly vanilla kind of guy, he really isn’t the type to consider joining the mile-high club. El, on the other hand, has a serious kink about secret sex in public places. They’ve talked about it often enough, but never quite got up the nerve to actually try. He hopes that El doesn’t get them into trouble.

The town car that El arranged for their trip to JFK arrives, and suddenly everything about this trip that had seemed like so much fantasy up to this moment becomes real. Their luggage is stowed, the timer for the lights and the alarm is set, and they are on their way. El’s tucked under his arm in the back seat, and he can’t resist kissing her. He feels like a teenager on the way to the prom, rather than a man pushing fifty with his wife of fifteen years. He looks down at her shining, beautiful face and asks her a very important question.

“Wanna neck?”

She giggles and kisses him. They get to second base (his hand under her shirt) before reaching the Belt and the only thing stopping El from sticking her hand into his pants is the lack of traffic. They get to the airport in seemingly record time, and when they go to check in, Peter understands why El was so insistent on his wardrobe. They’ve been upgraded to first class. When he sees the cabin and the seats that fold down into beds surrounded by privacy screens, he thinks, there is no way that they are not going to have sex on the plane.

Somewhere over the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, in the narrow “bed” and covered by blankets that smell vaguely of cheap laundry soap and jet fuel, Peter fucks Elizabeth. Of all the sex they’ve had over the years, (including a very awkward first time in the studio apartment El shared with three other girls when they were too embarrassed to move and wake anyone with squeaking bedsprings) this coupling probably ranks as the most uncomfortable for both of them. By the time Peter comes (more from desperation than desire), El’s been rubbed raw. The armrests dig deep into her kidneys and Peter’s stubbed his toe on the cabin floor because his legs are too long. They both almost moon the cabin steward who comes to check on them, alerted by Peter’s overly loud “ouch” when El tries to find her panties and jabs her fingers into his groin instead.

“Well, that didn’t live up to my expectations.” El says, with a moue of distaste. They’ve both managed to get back into their clothes, but she’s still in Peter’s seat, cradled between his legs.

“Sorry, honey.” As much as he loves and adores holding her, Peter silently hopes she’ll move back into her own seat soon. His legs are getting numb.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Her voice is placating.

Peter shifts and then shifts again, hoping Elizabeth gets the message. It would be a dreadful start a vacation if he were crippled.

“What’s the matter?” El snuggles close and Peter bites his lip to stifle a groan.

“My legs are falling asleep. I don’t think these seats are really made for cuddling.” He tries to sound disappointed. He must have failed miserably, because she gives him “the look” before climbing back into her own seat. He reaches over the privacy wall for her little hand and squeezes. They both doze off and sleep until the cabin lights come on and the stewards serve a light snack before landing.

* * *

Venice is every bit as crowded and difficult as Peter remembers. After changing planes in Rome, they land at Marco Polo Airport around 2 p.m. It takes them nearly an hour and a half to collect their luggage and make it through customs and immigration and out to the water buses.

The ride from the airport to their hotel near the Accademia Bridge doesn’t take more than a half-hour, and Peter wouldn’t mind just checking into their hotel and taking a nap.

Elizabeth nixes the idea. “Honey, the best way to conquer jet lag is to stay awake and maintain a normal schedule.”

“I know that, I’ve travelled overseas often enough, but this is a vacation and shouldn’t I be entitled to relax when I want?”

“No. The day is too perfect to waste even a moment of it.”

Peter has to agree. The weather is exquisite, like the best autumn days in Manhattan. The air is surprisingly crisp and clean and looking at his wife’s face, he doesn’t want to deny her a moment’s pleasure.

So they drop their luggage off, and go out in search of the perfect espresso. It’s a short vaporetto ride to the Rialto neighborhood, a good starting point for tourists on their first day in Venice. Over biscotti and tiny cups of coffee that make the Ethiopian Sidamo he once enjoyed taste like the bitter slop from the office machine, Peter sighs in happiness.

“So, this was a good idea?” El gives him that lovely, womanly-wise smile.

“Yes – and all your ideas are brilliant.” Mellow with contentment, Peter’s extravagant in his praise.

“Not all, surely.”

“Well, most.”

El rests her cheek on her palm and gazes at her husband. “Happy anniversary, darling.”

“Happy anniversary to you to, Mrs. Burke. And thank you for the best fifteen years of my life. I cannot – I do not want to imagine the person I’d be without you.”

They sit for a few moments longer, enjoying themselves and the early evening air.

“Honey?”

“Hmmm.”

“How far to the Rialto Bridge?”

Peter’s laid-back mood is broken. “Not far, why?”

“I want to see it.”

Peter shivers. He should have anticipated this. “We can take a gondola ride down the Grand Canal tomorrow.”

“We can to that, but I’d like to walk across it. I want to see the shops.”

Peter finishes the last of the espresso and wipes his lips. “No, hon. You want to see where Neal jumped from.”

El hides a grin, but can’t deny it. “Do you mind?”

He sighs. “Not at all.” Tossing a bunch of Euros on the table to settle the bill, Peter grabs her hand. “Let’s go.”

The walk to the bridge doesn’t take long; and as they approach the famous structure, the crowd thickens. He’s been here before, the light and shadow flickering on the white stone, the effluvial smell from the lagoon waters, the noise of a thousand voices gabbling in a hundred different languages create the eeriest sense of _déjà vu_. Nothing feels quite real as he starts to climb the stairs leading to the bridge’s apex. All he can hear is own heart beating.

At some point, El lets go of his hand, and memories begin overtake him. _Neal, standing at the top of the bridge, dressed all in black, a bag slung over his shoulder, smiling like a boy on Christmas morning. Neal, one leg over a window sill in a second floor apartment in Prague, saluting him as he defenestrates himself. Neal, on the fourth story ledge outside of a judge’s chambers, jumping into a bright orange awning, and the combined sense of shock and pride._.

Struggling to make sense of everything, to reground himself in the here and now, Peter turns back and looks for Elizabeth. She’s standing a few feet behind him and smiling, but she’s staring at a point over his shoulder. He turns around to see what she’s looking at. The crowds seem to be flowing around something. His heart rate slows and then speeds up. There’s something blocking the passage, but Peter can’t really see around the masses of people. He keeps climbing; the crowd finally ebbs, the path clears and he can see.

It’s Neal.

Peter blinks, once, twice. To clear the memory from his eyes. But Neal is still standing there, in the middle of the pathway, at the top of the bridge, waiting for him.

He takes one step, another and then another; and he is face to face with him, close enough to touch. Neal doesn’t move; his chin is held high and the set of his shoulders is like that of a man expecting a body blow. Or rejection.

Peter reaches out to Neal. His skin is cool, from the evening breeze over the water; the bristle from his five o’clock shadow is rough against his fingers. He is real and not a figment conjured out from his dreams and desires and memories.

The moment echoes their encounter in the Federal Plaza garage a little more than a year ago, but now fear has replaced desire; anxiety instead of anticipation. Peter is frozen; he doesn’t know what to do. The apology he’s been waiting to give for so long is crammed his throat, it can’t get past the aching, burning tears.

Neal finally moves. He presses his cheek into Peter’s hand and whispers something. Peter stops breathing, he can’t hear Neal over the pounding of his heart. Neal looks down, the expression in his eyes momentarily hidden, and then back up at Peter. He repeats himself and it sounds like “forgive me” but that may just be his own words resonating inside his head. Neal reaches out and touches Peter’s face, fingertips trailing down Peter’s cheeks, tracing the path of the tears he didn’t even know were there.

The words finally come and he sobs. “Neal, I am sorry, I am so very sorry. Please forgive me.” For all the times that Peter has imagined this moment, it’s never been like this. He’s dreamed of this point, it’s usually a random encounter in New York - and in those dreams, waking and sleeping, there are never tears, no high emotion. He’s Peter Burke, a man fully in control of himself. In his favorite fantasies, Neal gets a just little teary and Peter tells him to cowboy up. Apologies are accepted and they are good with each other. It’s never anything like this, where he is the one messy with tears and filled with uncertainty.

Neal leans in close and brushes his lips against Peter’s ear, and he can finally hear what Neal is saying.

“Forgive me, too.”

Whispering “yes, yes, yes,” Peter wraps his arms around Neal, hugging the lean, wiry strength of the other man close to him, erasing the memory of the last time he had his hands on him – when he threw Neal out of the house and out of his life. Neal grabs on to him and Peter feels Neal shudder; the echo of that rolls through him like an aftershock. They are uncaring of the crush of sightseers flowing around them as they cling to each other, two men drowning in a sea of regret and redemption.

A small, hot hand touches his waist, Elizabeth is there. She is smiling, but her own face is wet with tears. He reaches out and enfolds her into their embrace. She looks at him first, all the love in her heart shining out, blinding and true, but when she turns to Neal, her eyes are clouded with uncertainty. She touches the cheek she had slapped that last morning, perhaps to soothe the sting, perhaps to seek absolution. Whatever she’s looking for, it doesn't seem to matter to Neal. He asks for her forgiveness too.

Peter doesn't know how long they stand there, but it can’t be too long. They are blocking the path and the people shoving past are glaring at them. El gives a watery laugh and Neal echoes it; Peter states the obvious . “I think we need to get going.”

Neal makes a move, as if to throw a leg over the stone railing. There’s laughter in his eyes now. “I know a shortcut.”

El gasps and Peter clamps a hard hand down on Neal’s arm. “Don’t even think about it, not now, not ever again.”

Neal relaxes into Peter’s grip. “You really think I’d jump? Now, after waiting for you, not knowing if you’d show up?”

Peter looks at Elizabeth, completely puzzled. “The two of you didn’t plan this? The whole anniversary trip?”

She shakes her head. “Neal and I made arrangements to meet here a year ago. We haven’t spoken since. I didn’t know, after everything, if Neal was going to keep the rendezvous.”

Peter looks to Neal for confirmation.

“I had no idea if you were going to be here, Peter. I hoped, but... ” Neal’s voice trails off in uncertainty.

Peter’s stunned. That Neal was here, waiting for him, not knowing if he was going to show up, teaches him more about forgiveness than any words ever could.

* * *

The sickening fear that’s been Neal’s constant companion for the last four months eases. This whole last year has been a risk, a terrible risk that’s nearly ruined him. Standing on the bridge waiting for Peter and Elizabeth, Neal refuses to let himself hope that they would be here. He can’t let himself even think that they would, because if they don’t show up, he doesn’t know what he’ll do. Yet that is a lie he’s telling himself, because if he doesn’t hope that they will come, there is no reason for him to be there.

Last year, when he had talked with Elizabeth about Peter and what they felt for each other, he fooled himself into thinking that it wouldn’t be this difficult. He’d take the year and find out if he really could stand on his own, make the right choices. But that last, horrible morning when Peter blows up and throws him out seems to prove that he can never make the right decision. No matter how hard he tries to fix things, to make them right, he just ends up hurting everyone he loves.

When Peter calls him a child, a sorry and misbegotten excuse for a man and a friend, Neal knows those words are true. How often had he paid lip service to Peter’s requests? How many times has he manipulated him for his own ends? The galling, bitter truth is that Neal doesn’t have the slightest idea how to act any other way. Something in him, the moral compass that everyone else seems to possess; or at least everyone he works with at the Bureau, is missing from him.

He needs the time to find out if he can make decisions that don’t revolve around his immediate wants and needs, and yet in doing so, he creates another disaster. The feel of Peter’s hand on his arm, biting into flesh and muscle and bone, as he bodily throws him out of the house is a phantom pain for days. That, and the bruises left on his wrist by Elizabeth’s punishing grip and the sting from the slap. Yet, when the marks on his body fade, he feels like he wants to die – they were all he has left of them.

He wishes, futilely, that he could have done things differently. But over the course of the year, Neal realizes that there was no other way. He needed to make a clean break, even a painful one if he was going to ever be able to stand on his own. But he shouldn’t have taken that weekend, and he cursed himself for wanting to have his cake and eat it too.

They had been dancing around each other for so many years, wanting and denying. In fact, keeping his hands off Peter is perhaps the only right thing he’s ever done in his life. He wasn’t blind to the signals that Peter’s given off. From the very beginning, he knows that Peter wants him, even if Peter doesn’t realize it himself. All the casual touching, the way he never hesitates to get deep into Neal’s personal space, the looks. _God, those looks_.

But Peter is a good man, a loyal and loving husband, and would never consciously think of violating his marriage vows. And Neal, for all the times that he never hesitates to take what he wants without considering the damage he will inflict, stays away the thing he wanted most. Yet something had changed during the last two years of his parole. At first, Peter pulls back from him. It wasn’t like the anger Peter had for him after the disastrous confrontation with Fowler, when he just about destroys everyone and everything in his personal orbit. This is different, it is like Peter was seeking some distance to reassess, reevaluate.

Yet, after a few tense weeks on Neal’s part, Peter seems to return to normal, the relationship has righted itself. If anything, Neal would say that Peter is drawing even closer, bringing him deeper into his life. He dines with Peter and Elizabeth several times a week, when Elizabeth comes to the office for lunch, he’s asked to join them more times than not. Once, they take him on vacation, albeit a long weekend at her family’s rental on the Jersey shore.

This pattern continues for the next two years, and Neal is at first puzzled. He adores Elizabeth and he relishes the time he spends with her, with her and Peter. Then he starts to get a little wary, as she becomes handsy, like her husband. If they’re walking, she places herself in the middle and tucks her arm in his, or she’ll squeeze his biceps when making a point. When he comes over, she gives him a hug, and when he leaves, she kisses his cheek (and sometimes he’s tempted to “accidentally” turn his face, so their lips meet). But most intimate of all is the thing she does with his hair. A meeting never passes without her running her fingers through his hair, or brushes the lock that falls across his brow. Every so often, her nails with scrape his scalp and he has to struggle to suppress a shiver and his arousal. They are never alone; Peter’s always there, watching with that indulgent smile. For the longest time, Neal thinks that Peter considers them brother and sister.

Then one Saturday, with just two months left on his parole, and his mind made up about leaving, Elizabeth comes up to his apartment. She is alone, and she blows him away.

 _“He wants you to stay.” They’re sitting on the terrace, sipping ice tea and enjoying a rare temperate July day._

 _“I know. I want to stay too.” Neal looks past her shoulder, out on that impossible view._

 _“So stay. It’s that simple.”_

 _“No, Elizabeth. It isn’t.” He explains why he has to go, even if it’s just for a year. He wills her to understand that this isn’t a whim brought on by four years in prison and four years of closely monitored parole. He isn't looking for freedom, he is looking for purpose._

 _The stare she gives him is unnerving, but he doesn’t turn away. There’s no reason to, there’s nothing to hide. She’s the one who breaks, looking down and then licking her lips nervously._

 _“He loves you, you know.”_

 _A million thoughts run through his head. That can’t be what she means. “Yeah, like an annoying baby brother. Or the quirky friend in a cop-buddy movie.”_

 _“No, Neal. He loves you like ... like he loves me.”_

 _Neal freezes. “No – Elizabeth. No. He’s married to you – you have the perfect relationship. How could you even think that?” His voice rises in agitation. Neal pushes back from the table and rushes to his feet. “He adores you, he’d never betray that.” The thought of Peter betraying Elizabeth is like a betrayal of everything that Peter is, everything he stands for._

 _Elizabeth sits there, still, quiet and composed. “The human heart is not a finite vessel, Neal. The love he has for you does not, cannot, diminish his love for me.”_

 _Neal stands and stares at her, wanting to believe but too afraid._

 _Her smile turns mischievous. “And it doesn’t hurt that I’m quite fond of you too.”_

 _Neal tries to make one last pitch. “Peter’s not gay. I mean – he’s been married to you for over a decade. And I wouldn’t believe you if you told me that he’s had boys on the side all along.”_

 _“Oh, sweetheart. Peter’s, well - Peter. His sexuality has nothing to do with his emotions. Like you. He loves you, has been attracted to you for nearly a decade and it will never matter to him that you button your shirts left over right. Besides, Peter’s not exactly Mr. Vanilla.” Elizabeth sniffs, slightly embarrassed for the first time in this strange conversation._

 _Neal sits down again and buries his face in his hands. Elizabeth comes over, rubs his back and flicks her fingers through his curls. “What am I going to do?”_

 _She lifts his chin up, and he meets her gaze squarely. “What do you want to do?”_

 _Neal laughs, lightly, bitterly. “I want to spend my life with you, I want to fall asleep with Peter behind me, wrapped in his arms and my head pillowed on your breasts. I want to come home with Peter and find you waiting for us. I want to sweep you off your feet and dance the night away. I want...” His voice fades out, and then gets strong again. “I want to be a man you can admire, you can trust. You can rely on.”_

They come full circle. Despite everything that Elizabeth is offering him, he knows that if he stays, he’ll destroy them. And he may destroy them if he leaves. In the end, they agree to surprise Peter that final weekend, and Elizabeth makes him promise not to leave without saying goodbye. Neither of them had thought that Peter would take his farewell so badly.

* * *


	7. Between the Darkness and the Dawn

**Chapter Six – Between the Darkness and the Dawn**

Still trying to absorb the fact that Neal was there, waiting for him – without any idea that he was going to be in Venice, the thought occurs to him that he’s married to an extremely devious woman. He forces himself to look from Neal (he’s almost afraid he’ll disappear if he looks away) to Elizabeth and shakes his head in wonder.

“What?”

“I am in awe, El. Absolutely in awe. You led me here like a dog on a leash, I never got the slightest hint that you were manipulating me.” Peter’s smile takes away the sting of his words. “No nap, let’s go for a walk, and let’s go see the Rialto. You were on a very strict timeline. What would you have done if I said ‘no’?”

Her mouth turned up in a sheepish grin, she looks at Neal. “Where are you staying?”

He rolls off the name of an exclusive boutique hotel near the Accademia Bridge, the same one he and El were staying at.

“Oh, thank goodness.” She turns to Peter. “If we missed Neal today, I would have asked the front desk if he had checked in yet. As long as Neal was here, we would have arranged the meeting. Somehow, somewhere.”

He hugs her with equal measure of love and gratitude.

They hail a water taxi and head back to the hotel. Pulling away from the quay, Peter turns around and looks back at the Rialto. It’s so much smaller than his memory, but so much more beautiful. He shakes his head. It’s Neal, and Peter still can’t believe he’s here, that after everything, he took such a leap of faith. He looks at Neal. The year has wrought some changes; the delicate, albeit masculine beauty has matured. There is something there, something that Peter can’t quite put his finger on, but he’s got some time to figure it out.

He can barely remember the rest of the trip back to the hotel; it seems to take half a lifetime. When they go into the lobby, there is a moment’s awkwardness, he and El have already checked in, and Neal is standing there, unsure of where he should be going. Peter says nothing, and he asks the concierge for his room key. Peter’s exhausted, physically and emotionally, but there is no way he’s letting Neal out of his sight. Not now, maybe not ever. The three of them head upstairs and as Neal says goodnight and turns to go to his room, Peter pulls on his arm.

“You’re with us, Caffrey.” He knows he’s growling. “I just didn’t feel like advertising our relationship to the hotel staff just yet.”

El chimes in. “Did you think, after everything that you were going to spend the evening alone?”

The relief on Neal’s face is patently clear. “I guess we have a lot to talk about.”

“You guess, Sherlock?”

The hotel suite is everything that the advertising promised, particularly the oversized bed and the view of the Grand Canal. Neal is standing before the window, watching the sun set behind the ancient city’s skyline. El goes to him and he presses a kiss to her hair. Watching them, in the warm stillness of the hotel room with the last of the daylight pouring in, Peter’s eyes begin to burn. They are silhouettes rimmed in gold and red, features indistinguishable in the sharp-edged shadows. In a few brief moments, the sun flashes once and disappears, leaving the room in near total darkness.

It’s amazingly quiet. Peter doesn’t remember Venice being this quiet, but it must have been. There are no cars, no sirens, no horns, no wheels rattling over potholes and broken pavement. Even though it is still early in the evening, and barges are still moving up and down the canal, they are far less noisy than their wheeled counterparts. The silence, punctuated only by the soft sound of three people breathing makes him feel a strange, almost drugged lethargy. And then he remembers, it’s still the first day in Europe and the jet lag is catching up to him.

He holds out his hands to his wife and then to Neal. “Come to bed?”

Neal hesitates, like some fey, shy creature, and then he takes Peter’s hand and allows himself to be pulled down onto the bed.

Shoes are toed off, but the rest of the clothing stays on. They lie together, wrapped around each other, three weary travelers clinging together for comfort, for solace, for safety.

* * *

Elizabeth is the first to wake. She’s disoriented and can’t remember where she is or even why she’s on a bed, still dressed, and wrapped in a strange man’s arms. The unfamiliar sound of ringing church bells and the familiar sleepy mutterings of her husband on the far side of the bed restore her sense of place and time.

The illuminated clock on the nightstand reads 9:01 pm; they’ve only been asleep for a little over an hour and a half. Her stomach rumbles, the loudest noise in the room, loud enough to wake Neal. His eyes open, glowing in the reflection of the dim light. He stretches and smiles at her, gracefully moving into a half sitting, half reclining pattern.

“Here we are, again.” His voice is barely a whisper.

She kisses him gently as she gets up and goes into the outer room of the suite; Neal follows, but only so far. She stiff arms him and goes to the bathroom. When she comes out, Neal hands her a glass of cold orange juice from the honor bar, and makes use of the bathroom himself.

Peter’s still sleeping when he comes out of the bathroom and by mutual and unspoken agreement, the door to the bedroom is closed and they sit down to talk. Except that Elizabeth can’t think of what to say, even though she’s imagined this moment for a year.

“You look good, Neal.” An appeal to his vanity is always a conversation starter, but Neal shakes his head and gives a light snort of laughter. She’s apparently too transparent in her awkwardness.

Neal cuts right to the chase. “How bad was it?”

“Pretty awful, especially the first few weeks.”

“Was he angry at you?”

“No. It took me about two months before I told him what I had done, that I knew what you were planning. He figured out that I must have told you about his feelings for you. That didn’t seem to matter. But still, I felt so guilty. He was so hurt, so angry. I had never seen him like that.”

Neal took a sip of his drink, and Elizabeth could see his hands shake slightly. “You were right, you know. I should have just left the office, and left you alone. I let him believe that I was going to stay, and that was unforgivable.”

She can’t offer Neal absolution. That will have to come from Peter. But he has to know that there is a way back to “them.” After all, she arranged this trip for Peter, on the slim and unconfirmed hope that Neal would be here, waiting.

“Are we – you and me – going to be okay?” Neal’s eyes are pleading.

She reaches out and runs her fingers through his forelock. “Maybe, honey.”

They sit together, in the semi-darkness, not talking even though she has a million questions. Elizabeth’s seen the postcards in the Bureau offices, and she knew most of his plans before he left, but she has no details. Finally, she breaks the silence.

“An ashram in India? Very original.”

“What, I can’t seek a path to spiritual enlightenment?”

“Neal, that’s not even a classic, and it’s barely a cliché. Besides, I can’t see you giving up all your worldly possessions and creature comforts.”

“No?” His grin is blinding.

“Well, not your worldly possessions. You’ve certainly spent time without creature comforts.” She smirks at him.

Neal bites his lip to restrain the laughter. “That I have.”

“If your postcards hadn’t started coming in again, I think people would have thought you were in prison someplace.”

“That was never, ever a possibility.” The truth in Neal’s words rang like a silver bell in the quiet room.

Something within Elizabeth relaxed. “So, you’ve done what you set out to do?”

“Yeah.” There was nothing more to say.

“Then we’re good.”

Neal stands up and pulls her to his feet. She’s wrapped in his arms. “It nearly killed me, you know.”

“What?”

“The expression on your face, when you slapped me. You looked at me like I was a monster from your worst nightmares. I understood, but it hurt. Maybe worse that Peter’s anger.”

Elizabeth had never thought about that. In the hours and days after Neal’s departure, she had focused on Peter and his pain and her guilt. Except for picking up the envelope and tucking it away, she deliberately refused to think about Neal, what he was doing and how he was feeling. Tears threaten, then begin to fall as she thinks about how lonely and abandoned Neal must have felt, particularly since she had helped him plan that last weekend.

“I’m sorry.” The words sound empty, hollow, meaningless. She’s said them so often lately.

Neal looks down at here, and his own eyes are filled with tears. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

Never a pretty crier, she sniffles and rubs her nose against Neal’s chest.

“Hey!” Neal steps back and looks at the streak of mucus on his shirt. “Elizabeth Burke, you’re disgusting.” The mood is broken and they both smile.

“But you love me anyway?” The question is flippant.

Neal’s answer is not. “Forever and always.”

* * *

Peter rolls over, hot and uncomfortable. Wakefulness comes slowly as he reaches for Elizabeth and finds an empty bed and a strange room. _Venice_. And then he remembers. _It wasn’t a dream, was it?_ The soft sound of voices from the outer room, the words indistinguishable but infinitely soothing. _No, definitely not a dream._

He sits on the edge of the bed and lets the last of the torpor dissipate and reality set in. Neal was here, he came to Venice on the slimmest of hopes and said he’s forgiven him. But that doesn’t mean that everything is good between them. The road back is going to be difficult. He said some very hateful things to Neal. He had been hurt and wanted to make Neal hurt just as much. “I’m sorry” only goes so far. However, he can’t kid himself that there wasn’t a core of truth in the sentiments.

 _Time to face the music_.

Peter opens the outer room of the suite, El and Neal are standing there, and in the dim room light, he can see the remnants of tears on both their faces. But they are smiling now.

“Hey you.”

Neal turns to him. “Hey, yourself.”

They are awkward with each other, and El – bless her – kisses his cheek and excuses herself, she wants to shower before they head out for a late supper.

“Neal.” He breathes like a prayer. “I don’t know where to start.”

Neal puts a hand on his shoulder and slides it around to the back of his neck, drawing him in close. He presses his head against Neal’s, inhaling his scent and triggering a thousand memories. Not of them together in bed, but of Neal standing by his side, in the office, in the field, working together. And then he knows what he has to say.

“I have missed you. I’ve missed you so much.” The waterworks threaten, but Peter contains himself.

“I’ve missed you too. You have no idea.”

The words come easier now. “I said awful, terrible things to you.”

“And a lot of them were true.”

Peter nods. “Yes, in a way there were. But still, I was brutal.”

“I hurt you… It wasn’t business – it wasn’t about a case or the music box or Kate or any of the million and one crazy stunts I’ve pulled. It was about us – about commitment.”

Peter can’t say anything. Neal is right. But he isn’t finished.

“Peter, you have to understand something…” Echoes of what he tried to say that morning. “If…if I could go back and do it all over again, I wouldn’t do anything differently.”

Peter is speechless.

“I know it sounds horrible, and my reasoning is selfish, but please – just let me explain.”

He nods, giving Neal the time that he once refused to.

“Did Elizabeth tell you why I had to go?”

Peter chose his words carefully, out of self-preservation. “Yes, and it made me feel even worse. You were looking to do the right thing, and I was thinking about how much I … I wanted and needed you.”

“Then understand this – without the hard break, I don’t think I could have left. Or left and stayed away until I could come back. I couldn’t risk having a soft landing. As long as I knew you were somewhere behind me, looking out for me, I don’t think I could have done it. I doubt I would have been able to stand on my own, as an honest man, knowing that you were there as my safety net.”

“Oh, god. Neal.” Peter is stunned. This is something he never considered, even after El told him why Neal left.

Neal grasps his hands, holding them tightly. “If I could have done it without hurting you and Elizabeth, believe me, I would have. Of all the terrible things I’ve done, leaving you like that may have been the worst. You deserved so much better than that. Can you forgive me?”

“Neal, how can you even ask?” He feels like he’s just run a marathon.

“Where do we go from here, Peter?”

Peter thinks about the question, and all the ways he could answer it. He’s afraid, though; afraid to start hoping again. It’s too soon and he knows that it wouldn’t take much for him to start building castles in the air.

“I think we take things very slowly. For all our sakes.”

Neal seems to agree. “Venice is, after New York, my favorite city in the world. I would love to show it off to you.”

Peter agrees. “We’ll spend these weeks together, and make no commitments. We won’t discuss the past, and we won’t talk about the future. We can just be ourselves, in this place, out of sight and out of time.”

Neal nods his head in agreement. “Okay - no commitments now.”

He reluctantly allows Neal to go back to his room to shower and change, with a promise to meet in the lobby. It feels ridiculous, but he doesn’t want to let the other man out of his sight. It _is_ ridiculous, Neal isn’t going to just disappear again.

* * *

Neal delights in giving them a cook’s tour of Venice. Sometimes quite literally. He guides them through his favorite museums and art galleries, alternately ignoring Peter’s questions about which pieces he’s copied and then driving him crazy by pointing the ones that he’d like to make copies of some day. Peter growls, Elizabeth laughs and it’s all a game.

It’s exhilarating. He’s never been with them without worrying - even that last weekend. As Peter had said - this was their time - no past, no future. Just now. Their days are filled with exploring the city. He takes them up and down the narrow canals, away from the tourist-filled areas, to the quiet places that he loves, places that are quintessentially Venice. He buys Elizabeth strands of hand blown glass beads from the artisans on Lido and introduces Peter to old friends in the leather working district, and has both of them fitted for butter-soft lambskin pants.

And everything is punctuated by food. Between this gallery and that shop, they eat. Pizza and seafood and fish and risotto and more pizza, or they are snacking on olives and cheese and bread dipped in olive oil. The coffee is to die for and the wine never seems to stop flowing. The next to last night before the end of their Venetian interlude, after a magnificent seven course meal that leaves El dozing in a food and wine drenched stupor, and he’s sitting next to Peter, toying with the remains of their dessert.

“How in the world did you managed to stay fit enough to get a leg over the railing of the Rialto, never mind landing on top of that water taxi and not sinking the boat when you lived here. You seem to know every restaurant and coffee bar and wine shop in the city. We haven’t stopped eating for ten days.”

Neal laughs. “I certainly didn’t indulge myself when I was here with Kate and Mozzie.” He didn’t even pause at the mention of Kate’s name. That wound finally healed. “You kept me on the run. No way I could stay ahead of you if I ate like this.” He splits the last of the third bottle of red into both of their glasses. He’s not quite drunk, and neither is Peter, but they are almost at the point of no return. He stares at Peter’s mouth as it glistens with the residue of the rich meal and the wine and he wonders if it will taste as good as his memories.

They’ve been as chaste as if they were siblings this past week and a half, even though they’ve shared a bed every night. That’s not to say that there is any lack of desire on his part, or an excessive amount of willpower, it’s just that it doesn’t feel quite right. He wakes up with morning wood, and so does Peter, but he excuses himself and goes back to his own suite to shower and dress, and to let Peter and Elizabeth be husband and wife.

Now, though, it feels right. The only think stopping him from reaching out and kissing Peter full on the lips is that they are in a half-empty restaurant and it’s not New York, where public displays of affection between men are nothing exceptional. He keeps his voice low and leans in towards Peter, brushing his fingers along his palm. “I’ve missed you.”

Peter seems to understand the subtext and closes his hand around Neal’s fingers, capturing him. “I’ve missed you, too.”

In a moment of utter recklessness, Neal brings their hands to his mouth and presses a hot, wet kiss against the pulse point on Peter’s wrist, and is rewarded when the steady beat speeds up.

“I know you said you wanted to take things slow, but fuck - Peter.”

“Fuck? Caffrey, your vocabulary is a little lacking tonight.” Neal wants to kiss the smirk off Peter’s lips.

“Yeah - fuck.” He’s held off because it made sense, but now it seems stupid and wasteful. “It’s been a damn long and lonely year. How much longer are you going to make me wait?” Neal closes his eyes in embarrassment - the wine’s loosened his tongue, or maybe he’s just suddenly tired of the glacial pace of this reunion.

“I never said ‘no sex’ - I just said we should take things slowly.”

“Peter, we took things slowly for four years.”

“And you know why.”

Neal sighs, “Yeah. There were a million good reasons back then, and not one of them is valid now.” Then something occurs to him, a sickening thought. “Unless you don’t feel that way anymore?”

Now it’s Peter’s turn to sigh. “Neal, I think I’d need to be dead and dust before I’d stop wanting you.”

“Then what’s stopping you?” Neal looks over at the dozing Elizabeth.

“No, it has nothing to do with El and everything to do with me.”

Neal’s confused. “You aren’t making any sense, Peter.”

Peter licks his lips and his eyes won’t meet Neal’s. “I’m afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” His mouth is dry, he isn’t sure he wants to hear the answer.

“We said no commitments. I am afraid that if we have sex, I’m going to do exactly what I did last year. I’m going to want promises that you won’t be able to make.” He meets Neal’s eyes at last. “I’m an old fashioned guy - you wine me, dine me, take me dancing...eventually, I’m going to expect a ring on my finger.”

Neal’s heart starts to pound. “You’ve already got a ring.” His breath comes out in a shudder.

“I’ve got another hand, and so does Elizabeth.”

Neal licks his lips. They are heading into dangerous territory here. No commitments but lots of wordplay. “What if I said I know a jeweler in New York. Would you be interested in paying him a visit?”

“In New York?”

“Yes, in New York.”

“Sound like a plan.”

Neal can’t help but notice that Peter has been careful to avoid asking when, and Neal wants to tell him. He wants to tell him everything but caution, borne of experience and his own natural reticence stops him. There is still time.

Peter gently shakes Elizabeth away. “Come on honey, wake up.”

“What, what?” It’s rather cute, almost like when he startles Mozzie out of a nap. She’s both hyper-alert and completely disoriented.

Peter leans low and whispers in her ear, just loud enough for him to hear, too. “Neal wants to have sex. We should go back to the hotel. I don’t thing the restaurant would appreciate a public act of sodomy.”

Neal nearly chokes on the last sip of wine.

Elizabeth looks from Peter to Neal and back to Peter. “Well, it’s about time.”

When they get back to the hotel, Neal finds he is almost as nervous as if this were his very first time. Elizabeth’s in no shape to join them, and Peter tells him that he’ll meet him in his room in a few minutes. Neal gives him his room key.

He dithers around his hotel suite for the next ten minutes. Should he get undressed and prepare himself? Should he let Peter prep him? What does Peter want? And then he stops. They were lovers once, just for a brief weekend. They still have so much to learn about each other. So he takes care of his personal hygiene, warms up the lube with hot water from the bathroom tap before putting on the bedside table and sits down to take off his shoes and socks.

And smiles.

It’s been a year and he’s barely thought about it since it came off that last time, but there’s no tracker. No unwieldy chunk of plastic with a green light to remind him that he’s always being watched. He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t hear Peter come in. He doesn’t notice Peter until the other man clears his throat.

“Problem, Caffrey?”

Neal would never admit it, but one of the things he’s missed the most these past twelve months is the way Peter says his last name, half growl of exasperation, half affectionate murmur. He finally looks up.

“No, just thinking about something.”

“Wanna share?”

Without even pausing, he replies. “The tracker.”

“Missing it? Because if you are, I can probably arrange to get you one.” Neal can read a wealth of amusement in Peter’s words and body language.

“No. No thank you. Wasn’t missing it at all.” Neal finishes taking off his socks and goes to Peter. “This is what I’ve been missing.” He wraps his arms around Peter and kisses him. Peter tastes better than his memories. He’s flavored with wine and the sour sweetness of the lemon _sgroppino_ they had for dessert and power and everything that Neal’s dreamed about for the past year.

Their kiss is sweet and then brutal. Neal isn’t in the mood to take prisoners and Peter isn’t willing to surrender. Peter’s hand clutch at his shoulders, his back and his own hands thread through Peter’s hair, pulling him close, holding him tight. They struggle a little for domination, both men giving and taking. Peter uses his size to leverage Neal back onto the bed. He looks up at Peter and licks his bruised lips. “At last” is the only thing he can say.

Peter is grinning. “Neal, if you wanted this, why didn’t you make your move earlier.” He watches him like a hawk.

He swallows, nervous again. “I didn’t …” His voice dies away.

“You didn’t what”

Neal raises his chin, a challenge. “I didn’t want to be turned down.” A flush of embarrassment stains his cheeks bright red. “Satisfied?”

Thankfully, Peter doesn’t laugh. “Not hardly, but I understand.”

Peter lies on the bed next to him, and brushes his hand across his face, as if he’s the most precious thing in the universe. “For all that we’ve known each other for decade, and we’ve been close friends for the last four years, we rushed everything. I didn’t want make the same mistakes.”

“Peter…”

“Shhh...don’t say anything Neal. Like we agreed, this is our time. No past, no future. Just now.”

Neal let himself be carried away, but Peter was wrong. Had they not just made a promise to each other?

* * *

As soon as the words left his mouth, he knows they are not only wrong, but a lie. This is not a moment out of time, this is the start of something of which Peter cannot see the end.

Neal turns his face into his shoulder and is pressing hot, wet kisses along his neck, his jawline.

“Do you know how long I’ve dreamed about doing this?” Neal’s whisper is dirty, salacious as his tongue teasing the mole at the base of his throat. Whatever thoughts Peter ever had had about seeing a dermatologist and getting it removed fly out of his head. Neal’s tongue, hot and wet and a little rough, like a cat’s, keep licking and licking. Peter shivers as Neal blow a cool stream of air against it.

He lay back against the bed and lets Neal take over for the moment. His fingers are quick and clever, unbuttoning his shirt, taking off his shoes and socks and then his pants. He’s naked and ready and is strangely passive. He wants to see Neal’s next move, but Neal doesn’t move.

“What are you waiting for?”

“What do you want from me?” Neal’s eyes are looking down and his posture is … submissive.

Peter’s mouth goes dry. This is almost too good to be real. There were times, before the tracker came off, when he would allow himself to think … to fantasize… about Neal like this. It was perhaps the one scenario that frightened him in its ability to instantly arouse him. To have him like that now, here, makes him dizzy with desire.

“Neal?” His voice infuses the name with all of the questions he doesn’t want to articulate.

“What do you want me to do?” Neal’s eyes come up, a brief flash of blue before falling back down.

“Strip. Slowly. And don’t stop looking at my face.”

Neal licks his lips and gets off the bed in a single, graceful move. Keeping his eyes glued to Peter’s, he first unbuttons his shirt, revealing his smooth, flawless skin. In a thoroughly uncharacteristic move, he simply drops his shirt to the floor. Neal’s pants follow shortly thereafter, and then his briefs. Completely naked now, his erection tight against his belly, Neal stands there, waiting for direction.

“Come here.”

He pulls Neal down onto the bed and begins to explore him. Neal writhes in his arms.

“Don’t move.” Peter presses his mouth against the apple of Neal’s shoulder, but Neal undulates like a seal swimming against the current. He bites down, a sharp, brief punishment. “I said, don’t move.”

Neal moans, but keeps still.

Peter takes his time, relearning Neal’s body and thinks there isn’t enough time in the universe to learn what makes this beautiful, complex man tick. Three years on the chase, four in prison, then another four at his side, plus one year doing everything he could _not_ to think of Neal (and failing miserably), and he’s barely scratched the surface. He wants to lose himself in the act of pleasing Neal, but some part of his brain stays detached, cynical, wondering how long it’s going to be before he’s hurt and disappointed again. It could be two days from now, when he and Elizabeth get on an airplane bound for New York and Neal leaves for parts unknown; or maybe next month or next year, when a BOLO comes across his desk - for real this time - for an art thief, a forger, a con artist matching Neal’s description.

Peter ruthlessly shuts down that voice and concentrates on the body beneath him. Neal is still following his orders, keeping himself still, keeping his eyes on Peter’s face. Those blue eyes are burning holes into his soul and he can’t bear to look at them any more. With a quick motion, he turns Neal over and hauls him up onto his knees. Neal’s arms are spread across the covers, the clenching hands his only movement.

Taking the bottle of lube from the nightstand, he takes his time prepping Neal, and thinks about what he had said earlier this evening, that it had been a year for Neal. He didn’t marvel at that, when it comes to matters of the heart, he knows that Neal is as constant as the sun, and he doesn’t doubt for a minute that Neal loves him, loves Elizabeth, but there is still that hard seed of worry that he can’t seem to shake. It’s not buried deep, and he knows that it won’t take much to make it germinate.

“Peter, please.” Neal is still fighting against movement, but he’s holding on by the thinnest of threads. “How long are you going to make me wait?”

They’re both shocked by the implications of Neal’s inadvertent plea.

“As long as it takes.” Peter tries to keep his voice steady, but he’s afraid some anger leaks out.

“I’m so…”

“Shut up, Neal. Just shut up.” He’s panting, and he finally lets loose the hounds of his desire. He pushes in deep, with one hard stroke. Peter’s barely concerned with Neal’s pleasure at this moment, he takes and takes, pounding in him, punishing him for everything that’s gone before and trying to take payment for anything that happens in the future. He hears Neal’s cries, but he doesn’t care if they are from pain or pleasure. His hands are like steel clamps on the other man’s hips, certain to leave bruises but he doesn’t care. As Neal clamps down on him, Peter comes, a blinding rush that darkens the edges of his vision and he collapse against Neal. As his heart slows and reality returns, he’s appalled at himself. He’s never, ever lost control like that. As he pulls out of Neal’s body, he’s afraid to look, afraid to see the damage he’s caused.

“Neal, are you all right? Neal?”

Neal rolls over and looks at Peter. “You know, there’s something to be said for reunion sex.” To Peter’s intense relief, Neal’s grinning like a fool, at least until he see the look on Peter’s face. “What’s wrong.”

“I thought I had hurt you. I was rough. I was … angry.” Peter swallowed, wanting to look away but unable to.

“Did you hear me objecting?”

Hating himself a bit, “I don’t think I could have stopped even if I did hear you.”

Neal pulled him down and kissed him thoroughly. “Don’t worry about it. I’m not as helpless as I look.”

Peter’s skeptical, but lets himself be soothed. As he’s thought all along, this is not going to be an easy road back.

Neal pulls the covers over them, sets the alarm and snuggles close. As he drifts off to sleep, Peter wonders how he is ever going to be able to say goodbye again.

* * *

Someone wakes him with a slap on the ass. Or maybe it’s just a strange dream featuring his wife and his lover? Boyfriend?

“You were right, Elizabeth. He talks in his sleep. It’s both charming and annoying.”

“I’ve managed to survive for fifteen years on a combination of charming, annoying and really great sex.”

That’s El’s voice and it’s definitely not a dream. He rolls over and sees Neal standing there, in of all things, a t-shirt, shorts and running shoes. His wife’s next to him, wearing a bathrobe and sipping from a tiny cup of espresso.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bakey.” Neal chants. “Except that this is Venice and the breakfast is Continental.” He holds out a cup to Peter as he sits up. He takes the time to savor the first swallow before downing the rest in a second gulp.

“Heathen.”

Peter sniffs and gets out of bed, totally disregarding the fact that he’s naked and sticky with the residue of last night’s adventures, and the two people he loves most in the world are looking at him with fond exasperation.

Neal looks at him and grimaces. “One night, and all the romance is gone.”

Peter can’t help but chuckle. “If you didn’t feel it necessary to stand around and watch, maybe some mystery would remain.

“Peter, this is _my_ room, in case you’ve forgotten.

His wife interrupts their banter. “You boys are on your own this morning. I’ve got a spa appointment.” El sails out of the room, the terry cloth robe briefly flying open, displaying a tiny pair of white panties.

“I am so very glad my wife feels so comfortable with her body that she doesn’t mind walking around the hotel in her underwear.” Peter scrubs at his face and goes to the bathroom.

“Want to join me for a run, old man?”

“Was that the sound of pipes creaking, or did you just call me ‘old man’?”

Peter can’t hear Neal’s answer over the sound of the flushing toilet, but he knows his goat is being gotten. He takes a quick shower to finish waking up and finds Neal lounging on the bed. “El brought over your gym clothes.”

He dresses quickly and they head outside. It is a perfect morning for a run, cool and crisp.

“Let’s make this interesting.” Neal’s eyes are gleaming with challenge.

Peter can’t resist. “What are you thinking?”

“Let’s race. From the Accademia to San Marco, twice around the whole Piazza and back.”

They had walked that route enough times over the past ten days that Peter thinks he could do it in his sleep. “Sounds good. What are the stakes?”

“One question. Winner gets to ask the loser one question.”

“Loser has to give a full and complete answer?”

“A confession, if you will.”

“Works for me.”

They stretch and do a slow jog to the base of the Accademia Bridge to warm up and Neal asks one of the shop keepers to act as starter. They take off as the man shouts “ _tre_ , both easily bounding up the steps of the bridge and back down the other side. It’s too early for tourists, but early enough for the shops and markets to be taking deliveries. There are wagons and goods being offloaded everywhere, and they have to leap and dodge like a pair of horses running a steeplechase. As Peter hits his stride, a sense of déjà vu settles over him again. But it’s nothing from his prior visit to Venice; it’s the memory of the Yellow Brick Road run from last May, when he was chasing a phantom.

But Neal is no phantom, not this time. He picks up the pace and is running side by side with Neal until they being the approach to the Piazza and the crowds thicken. Peter discovers that there really isn’t a time of day when San Marco is empty of tourists, and he battles to keep sight of Neal, of the flashing strength of those endless legs. He’s again struck by the feeling that he’s done this before and remembers how convinced he was that the runner on the Quantico endurance course was Neal. Breaking free of the crowds he spots Neal less than ten feet in front of him, and plowing through the resident pigeons, he kicks into overdrive and pulls even.

They are once again side by side as they lap around the Piazza for the second time and Peter takes the lead as Neal has to dodge around a pair of elderly women feeding the birds. The route back is just as obstacle ridden, but Peter keeps the lead, beating Neal back to their starting point by thirty seconds.

They are both slightly winded; the route was not particularly challenging except for the obstacles, and Peter thinks that wherever Neal has been this past year, he’s been able to keep in shape. They walk back to the hotel, agree to meet in the hotel dining room for breakfast and head off to their respective suites to shower.

As he’s scrubbing himself, Peter contemplates the question he wants to ask Neal. This is something too precious to waste. Neal won’t lie to him, and he will keep his promise about a fully confession, considering it was Neal himself who proposed the bet. He never would risk offering up something that he isn’t prepared to give. Peter goes through a dozen different options and discards them all. Nothing from his pre-prison days is relevant, although he is tempted to ask about the status of his cache. Somehow though, that seems cheating. Asking Neal about something that he could arrest him for is wrong. It has to be about something that Neal’s been hiding, but shouldn’t be something that gets him into trouble. Maybe if it’s something out of Peter’s jurisdiction, something he wouldn’t be bound to report? Then Peter latches on to the perfect question. But he’s not going to rush to ask it. Let Neal stew a little bit.

Neal is downstairs, waiting for him in the dining room, as promised.

“So, what to you want to ask me?”

There is something about the grin on Neal’s face that makes Peter wonder if he is being played.

“I haven’t made up my mind yet. A few things are percolating. Let’s wait a bit.”

Neal leans back in his seat, staring at him over the rim of his espresso cup. “You know, you can ask me anything. Any open file, even about the Raphael that I think Sara’s still chasing.”

Peter blinks, startled. He’s suddenly reminded of the daydream he had before the Quantico lecture, when he had imagined meeting Neal and Neal telling him that he was marrying Sara Ellis.

“Peter, you’ve got the strangest look on your face. I am dying to know what you’re thinking.”

He shakes his head, “No, you definitely won’t.”

“Now I am definitely intrigued.”

“Don’t be. Please.” The last thing he wants to do is tell Neal that he would construct elaborate scenarios about how they’d meet. They all seem so silly, so juvenile, especially now.

He watches Neal take a sip of his coffee. He can see that Neal wants to press him, there’s that small twisted smile on his lips that always means trouble. Yet Neal doesn’t say anything more on the subject. Peter nods his head in thanks.

Searching for a topic that won’t lead them into trouble, Peter asks about Mozzie.

“He’s fine. I suppose.”

“You suppose?”

“I haven’t seen him since I left New York. He’s not one for email or even the U.S. Postal Service, let alone mail in foreign countries. I’d know if there was a problem, we have contingencies in place.”

“I’m a bit surprised; I thought the two of you were inseparable. Joined at the hip.”

Neal shakes his head. “No, not hardly. He’s got his own agenda, I’ve got mine. They often overlap, but traveling through Europe isn’t one of those areas. Mozzie doesn’t care too much for the hotel life.”

“Whereas you would be very happy spending your days enjoying fresh coffee delivered to your door with the morning paper and nightly turndown service.”

“You know me all too well, Peter.”

Neal’s grin is just on the far side of too bright and Peter wonders if he’s said something wrong.

“Is there anything you’d like to do today?”

Peter notices that Neal deliberately avoids referring to the fact that he and El are leaving for New York tomorrow afternoon.

“I can’t think of anything. We’ve done museums and churches and shops and I don’t think there’s a wine or coffee bar we haven’t been in on the entire archipelago.”

“Want to jump off the Rialto? That’s something you haven’t done.”

“And it’s something I’m never going to experience, thank you very much Neal.”

“We could find a four story building with an awning, and I could teach you how to jump safely.”

“Neal, I went to Quantico. They taught me all sorts of stuff, like how to leap out of windows, how to scale fences, how to climb and jump and rappel down the sides of buildings. I think there’s little you could teach me.”

“Yes, I’ve certainly seen your prowess at dodging and leaping and climbing over obstacles.”

“What? When?” Something feels so off about that. Their work had never really involved serious and strenuous physical activity.

“This morning, Peter. You ran like a professional hurdler. I bet you have one of the best times on some of those FBI training runs.”

“Oh.” He feels foolish, of course Neal was referring to their run this morning. They had often worked out together on the track in the FBI gym, but the mild gradient on the quarter-mile loop was nothing compared to the cobblestone streets of the ancient city.

Their conversation wanders on and off, if they don’t talk about the past and he won’t bring up the future, there is little to discuss. Neal, though, has barely taken his eyes off of him since he sat down.

Resorting to the timeworn conversation starter, Peter says “Two cents for them, Caffrey.”

Neal huffs out an embarrassed laugh.

“What?”

“Just thinking about classics and clichés.”

Before he gets a chance to explain himself further, Peter spots El and waves her over. He thinks he hears Neal mutter something like “saved by the El.”

They stand in old fashioned courtesy, and Elizabeth gives him a kiss. And then one for Neal.

“I didn’t think it was possible but you are even more beautiful now than you were the day we married.” It wasn’t mere flattery, but the truth. El glowed with happiness.

“I can’t believe it’s our last day.” Her sigh is mournful. “How am I ever going to face a cup of Folgers ever again?”

Both men groan.

“What?” She unwittingly echoes her husband from five minutes ago,

Neal answers, his voice colored with rueful exasperation. “We’ve been sitting here, oh so carefully trying to avoid any mention of tomorrow.

She laughs. “You can’t keep avoiding the inevitable.”

Neal’s reply is soft, almost mournful. “I know, I know.”

Peter tries to sweep away the awkwardness of the moment. “Neal and I raced this morning, I beat him hands down.”

She turns to Neal. “Did you let him win? You know that you don’t need to stoke his ego.”

“Believe me, Elizabeth, with the stakes we were racing for, there was no way I was just going to let Peter win. I probably would have beaten him fair and square if it wasn’t for the old ladies feeding the pigeons.”

“What stakes?” She looks eagerly from Peter to Neal and back to her husband.

“The winner gets to ask the loser one question, and the loser has to give a completely honest answer.” Neal answers.

“Ooooh. Neal, that’s a big risk you took.”

He smiles. “I have nothing to hide. My life is an open book.”

She turns to Peter. “And what did you ask him?”

He grins at his wife. “I haven’t yet.”

“What are you waiting for?”

Peter shrugs. “I really don’t know.” He’s nervous, all of a sudden. Warning bells are going off and his gut is telling him that he’s about to make a huge mistake, but he ignores the internal alarm system. He doesn’t know why, but while his instincts are screaming “bad idea,” something is driving him to ask this question now.

“Neal, what did you do that you had to hole up for five months?” _Damnit, that wasn’t how I wanted to ask him._

“What do you mean, ‘hole up’?”

He’s committed now. “Come on Neal, you should be familiar with the expression. You went to ground for five months. We all appreciate that you took the time to let us know you’d be out of touch for a while, but I don’t think anyone bought the ashram story. I know I didn’t. You stole something, or pissed off someone or were running a con that took you off the grid. ”

His wife looks at him like he’s grown a second head and the expression on Neal’s face would be unreadable if Peter didn’t know him so well. It’s a combination of shock and hurt.

Neal doesn’t answer and Peter finds himself getting angry. “The stakes were a full and complete confession. I asked the question, you have to answer.”

“I didn’t do anything like what you are suggesting Peter. I had some personal business to take care of. Nothing illegal or immoral. I wasn’t ‘holed up’ or on the run or running a con.” Neal’s tone is quiet, emphatic and bitter. “But I guess in your eyes, a leopard never changes his spots and Neal Caffrey can’t go straight unless he’s attached at the hip to Peter Burke.”

“Okay, then. What were you doing for those five months?”

“No, Peter. You got your question and your answer. You don’t get a second chance.”

“Seems that you’ve had plenty of second chances, Neal, and I’ve given you most of them.”

“Peter!” El’s voice is filled with shock and anger.

Neal carefully finishes his coffee and tosses his napkin on the table. “I think I’m going to go start packing. I’ll leave the two of you to enjoy what’s left of your vacation.” Neal kisses El on the cheek and doesn’t look at Peter.

Peter thinks, as exits go, this is one of the less dramatic ones, but it somehow rivals their worst partings.

* * *


	8. I Love You, And That's All I Know

**Chapter Seven - I Love You, and That’s All I Know**

Neal makes it back to his room, but he feels brittle and old. _Nothing changes, does it?_ He’s given Peter every opening, every opportunity and for what? To be accused and accused again.

 _But what did you expect? To Peter, you’re still Neal Caffrey, confidential informant._

 _It would be nice to be trusted._ He argues with himself.

 _Have you ever really earned that trust? Or at least given him your perfect offer of proof?_ He wants that inner voice to shut up, but it’s young and bright and fresh as a newly minted coin. Stifling it isn’t a real choice.

Neal takes out his luggage and starts pulling his clothing from the wardrobe and drawers.

 _Running again? Great way to show your trustworthiness._

 _I’m not running. I’m leaving tomorrow, as scheduled. I just need something to do._

 _Yeah, you can lie to everyone else, even Peter, but you really can’t lie to yourself. Once you’re packed, you’ll be looking to change your ticket._ The voice is snide now.

 _No, I won’t. I’m not running out again. I’m done with that._

A knock on the door interrupts his conversation with himself. He looks through the keyhole, half hopeful, half dreading. It’s Elizabeth and he sighs with relief as he opens the door and lets her in.

“I’ve come to the conclusion that my husband is an idiot.” Elizabeth radiates all of the emotion that Neal’s been trying to suppress.

“Peter isn’t an idiot. It’s not like I don’t have a track record.”

“No, Neal. Peter’s an ass. You’ve given him so many openings, but he doesn’t want to see them.” She moves the pile of clothes on the bed and sits down. “Why don’t you just tell him? Why put yourself through all of this?”

He scrubs at his face. “I don’t know, Elizabeth. I’ve tried to make myself tell him a dozen times, but probably the demons that made Peter ask me what crimes I committed during those five months are first cousins to the ones that are keeping me from telling him, in full detail, of what I really was doing.”

Elizabeth reaches into her handbag and pulls out a white envelope. It’s a little stained and a little rumpled, but Neal recognizes it in an instant.

“Maybe it’s time you gave him this.”

“Have you read what I wrote?”

“It’s still sealed.”

“And a boiling tea kettle can fix that in an instant.”

Elizabeth smiles, but it’s a sad smile. “No, Neal. I’m not quite up to your tricks.”

He taps the letter against his fingers and thinks about all of the new options that this gives him. “Thank you. Thank you for saving this, thank you for bringing it with you, thank you for giving it back to me.”

“You’re going to give it to Peter?

“Yes, I am.” He kisses her, not on the cheek, but on the lips. A lover’s kiss, full of promise. “Do you want to have dinner alone with Peter, or can I join you for a farewell meal?”

Elizabeth thinks for a minute. “Join us for dessert, we’ll be having it our room tonight. Nine o’clock.”

“Elizabeth Burke, if you weren’t my best friend’s wife, I’d marry you.”

“Hold fast to that thought, buster. You may get your chance. I think you mentioned something about a jeweler you know back in New York?”

Neal closes his eyes and sees the three of them, matching rings and a real future. “Yeah, I know a jeweler.” His smile is practically angelic.

* * *

Back in their suite, she finds Peter engaging in the same activity as Neal, packing.

“I suppose Neal’s on his way off to wherever.” It doesn’t take a genius to see that he’s angry.

“Oh, honey.” She can tell just what he’s thinking.

“This time, I deserve it.” She watches as Peter shoves clothes randomly into a suitcase. At least it’s his clothes and she’s not going to intervene. “I’m never going to see him again.” He dumps the clothes on the floor and collapses on the bed, head in his hands. “I drove him away, didn’t I? After everything, I all but accuse him of going back to the life. What is wrong with me?”

It kills her to see Peter beat himself up, even if he did behave an idiot. She sits down next to him and wraps and arm around his shoulders, and aches for him. “I think that there are a lot of issues you two are still going to have to work through. But Neal hasn’t gone anywhere. He’s in his room, packing. Just like you, only a hell of a lot neater.”

“He hasn’t gone?” He gets up, or tries to, but she holds on to him.

“He’s angry and I don’t think he wants to see you right now, but he’s not going anywhere yet.”

“You sure?”

“Yes, Peter. I’m sure. He said he’ll join us for dessert tonight. Here, in our room. He just needs a little time to get over his mad.”

“Get over his mad? Like he’s a three year old who threw a tantrum. For chrissakes, El – I insulted him and I’ll be damned if I’m going to have to wait another year to apologize.”

“Peter Burke, listen to me. You go charging in there, you’ll end up saying something you’ll regret. If I thought your immediate apology was going to make things right, I’d be dragging you to his room by your short and curlies.”

“So, now what?”

“Let me help you finish packing. We’ll go for a last walk, have dinner and come back here for dessert.”

“Dessert?”

“Yes, darling, dessert. And in case you weren’t sure, that word is filled with innuendo. I don’t think we are going to find what we want on the room service menu.”

* * *

A little after 9:00, Neal lets himself into Peter and El’s suite. Their bags are packed and waiting in the living room. His own luggage is in the same state. It feels strange, to be leaving this way; orderly, tidy, like a regular tourist, instead of a man on the run. He even has reservations for a water taxi to Marco Polo, a costly ride but he really doesn’t want to have to deal with the masses of people on the water bus.

Doffing jacket, socks and shoes, he stretches out on the couch to wait. He’s never really been a dessert course before, and he half-wonders if he should have arranged for something else. Despite his reputation as an accomplished flirt, he’s always prized true affection over sexual athleticism, preferring partners for whom he cared deeply. Before Kate, there was Alex, before Alex, Sebastian, and before than, Micah. That was it, because after Kate, there was no one he wanted except Peter, and until she gave him permission to dream, Elizabeth. Eight years of celibacy because he’s too fastidious, too romantic to want anything but love.

The slide of the key into the slot and the click of the disengaging lock is as loud as a gunshot in the near-perfect silence of the hotel room. He forces himself to keep still. Elizabeth enters the room first, and her smile is bright enough to light the city. She’s wearing a midnight blue strapless gown, her magnificent breasts made even more magnificent by the garment’s tightly fitted waist. Peter’s right behind her, in a dinner suit that Elizabeth had bought for him at Neal’s direction, and he catches his breath. They are such an exquisitely perfect pairing; he knows he’s going to have to paint them sometime soon.

Peter’s smile turns wary as he sees him sitting there. He doesn’t say anything.

“Neal…”

“Yeah?”

“I was an ass. Again.”

“Yes you were, Peter.”

“Forgive me?”

“Absolutely. And for the record, I think if we are keeping a tally of second changes, it may take a lifetime for us to even approach parity.” Neal tries to keep his voice light, but he fails miserably. It’s always been this hard with Peter, and he doubts that it will ever get any easier.

Someone sighs and both men turn to Elizabeth. “Boys, has the high drama part of the evening has come to a conclusion?”

“Yeah, it most certainly has.” Neal doesn’t look to for Peter for confirmation. Instead, he goes to Elizabeth, who coyly turns her back to him.

“Unzip me.”

He presses a hot kiss to her shoulder and slowly slides the zipper down. The bodice falls away like an exotic piece of armor, revealing a delicate merry widow made of panels of lace and satin. The rest of the dress pools at her ankles, and her remaining garments are just a garter belt and stockings.

He whistles in appreciation. “Elizabeth Burke, do you always go commando in formal wear?”

“We both do.” Peter answers for his wife. “It adds an air of mystery.”

Neal can’t believe his ears. “I’m feeling a trifle overdressed.”

“I think we can remedy that.”

He finds himself the filling in a Burke sandwich, as Peter and Elizabeth strip him to his skin. He doesn’t remember moving to the bedroom, but at some point he’s on his back, Elizabeth raising a hickey on his neck and Peter’s mouth is on his cock, trying to swallow him whole. _They’re making dessert out of me._

When Neal thinks back on that night, his brain can’t seem to settle on any one moment of pleasure, they are all moments of pleasure. Elizabeth sliding down on his cock with exquisite control, drawing his orgasm out from somewhere past his knees. Peter’s big, blunt fingers working their way inside him, stretching, scissoring, making him ready, then shifting him so they are face to face. The burn of his slow penetration, the texture of the calluses on his thumb on the head of his dick as he teases another orgasm from him. Elizabeth’s mouth, her little cat tongue licking up the splashes of come that decorate his belly and chest.

He thinks he passed out from joy, from exhaustion with his face buried in Peter’s groin and Elizabeth humping his ass, but he can’t be too sure. The next time he opens his eyes, the phone is ringing and daylight’s seeping in from behind the curtains. He’s stuck in the middle, trapped under the weight of Peter’s leg and Elizabeth’s arm and no one’s moving to answer the phone. As he shift and reaches out, Peter throws his arm over him.

“It’s just the wake up call. You’re not going anywhere, Caffrey.” Peter’s voice was a sleepy grumble, but it brooks no disobedience. Despite his utter satiation, he shivers with arousal. Maybe it was the way Peter said “Caffrey,” when they are in bed, naked and achy from sex.

“Wasn’t planning on it. Just wanted to shut the damn thing up.”

Elizabeth simply reaches out and pushed the phone off the cradle. “Go back to sleep or go fuck. Whatever you do, just shut up.”

Neal bites his lip to stop himself from laughing and looks at Peter, who is just shaking his head. They lay there for a few minutes, until the off-the-hook sound starts. This time, Peter lets him reach over and fix the phone. When he tries to get out of bed, Peter traps him between his legs and kisses him.

“Ugh… Morning breath. Please.”

“You don’t exactly taste minty fresh either.”

“Boys, if you don’t stop the banter, I won’t be responsible for the consequences.”

Peter hauls him out of bed and into the shower. Neal had never thought of soap and water, or even shampoo as sexual aids, but the way Peter washes him, running slick hands over every inch of his body and scrubbing his hair (something that should have been anything but erotic) leaves him with barely enough strength to stand. In a small corner of his mind, probably the last place left that isn’t consumed by desire, Neal wonders when the webbing between his toes became an erogenous zone. He stands there, propped against the marble tiled wall, water pouring down in a warm deluge and Peter is kneeling at his feet, giving him the most exquisite blowjob of his life. He wants to return the pleasure, but after he comes over Peter’s face, he can barely remain upright. When Peter uses the hand unit to rinse him off, he all but collapses in a puddle of boneless lust.

Peter wraps him in one of the hotel’s terry robes, towel dries his hair and Neal feels cherished. He waits for Peter in the suite’s outer room and thinks that the conversation he had with Elizabeth right here the first night feels like it was another lifetime ago. He knows what Peter’s doing, he’s trying it make it impossible for Neal to leave them. And he’s doing a damn good job of it.

* * *

Peter sits down next to Neal, and he feels like he’s running out of time. It’s killing him that he can count the hours until their parting on one hand. He tries to take hope in Neal’s off-hand comment last night about a jeweler in New York, but he’s not a man who deals well with oblique promises and veiled references when it comes to his life. He can chase down the cons and frauds and cheats from the vaguest hints and the barest clues, but in matters of the heart, he needs signs in big, bold letters. That’s the problem between him and Neal, a lack of simple, direct communication. So, maybe it’s time for straight forward talking and stop dancing around what he wants. What they want.

“When are you going to be back in New York, Neal?”

Neal looks at him, startled.

“That deer in the headlights look isn’t your style. Can you just answer my question, please? I don’t care how long you need, but I need to know that you’ll be coming back. Or not coming back.”

The answer Neal gives him almost breaks his heart with happiness. “I’ll be back in New York in time for Thanksgiving, maybe sooner.”

He tries to push his luck. “What are your plans? What will you do?”

Neal kisses him, but Peter wasn’t willing to be distracted.

“Neal, please.”

“I’m still weighing some options.”

“Can you share?”

“No, not just yet.”

Peter swallows, he’s afraid of the answer to his next question. “Would you consider … consider coming back to the Bureau. Even part time, free lance. Consulting on select cases. No mortgage fraud, I promise. Just cases you find interesting. I can promise you a market rate fee, if that’s an issue.”

“Peter …”

The rejection was patently obvious. “I know, I know… been there, done that. It was worth a shot.”

Neal looks like he was about to say something, but stops himself.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t nothing, Caffrey. I know that look. You’re planning something.”

“Peter, I’ll be home…”

“Home?” He can’t keep the grin off his face.

“Yes, _home_. I said I’ll be home, back in New York before Thanksgiving, that’s a month away. That’s both a promise and a threat.”

“I can live with that.” And Peter realizes that he can.

Peter turns on the television for the first time since they arrived in Italy, and surfs through the channels until he finds CNN. It’s a quick reintroduction into the real world and they sit quietly, Neal leaning on Peter, listening to fluff news about some starlet’s arrest for coke possession, an interview with a rock star on his new philanthropy and finally, the financial news. Peter can’t restrain a sharp crack of triumphant laughter over a guilty verdict on a bank fraud case that the office investigated.

“Jones testified on that one.” He doesn’t try to keep the pride out of his voice.

“I remember the case. It landed on your desk about a month before I left. For bank fraud, a year from investigation to trial to guilty verdict is impressive.”

“Which just proves that you aren’t indispensable.” _Not indispensable to the office, just essential to me._.

“I never thought I was.” Neal’s tone is wry.

Elizabeth comes out of the bedroom, her hair an impressive imitation of a bird’s nest, her face painfully screwed up against the light from the television. “How long?”

“How long what, honey?”

“Until we leave. What time do we have to be at the airport? And don’t tell me I’m the keeper of the schedule.”

Peter retrieves the printouts of their e-tickets. “Our flight is at 3:45, so we need to be at the water bus before noon. It’s 8:30 now. Do I have to do the math for you?”

“Yes. Please.” El’s practically pleading as she seems to be holding her head onto her neck.

“That’s three hours, give or take. You’re all packed except for last night’s clothing.” Peter casts his head in the direction of her gown, now draped over the back of one of the chairs.

“Guys, I’m leaving Venice today too. My flight is at 3:30 and I’ve reserved a water taxi for 12:15. You can come with me.” Neal’s all wide-eyed and innocent sounding. Too innocent, but Peter doesn’t care.

“You always did prefer to travel in style, Caffrey. And we appreciate the offer to share.”

Neal picks up his clothes from last night, but before he leaves, he kisses El, and even though they whisper, Peter can clearly hear them both say “thank you.” He doesn’t kiss Peter, but the look they exchange is almost as good.

By the time El finishes her shower and they get the rest of their stuff packed, it’s nearly ten-thirty. Peter calls to have the luggage taken down and Elizabeth, finally recovered from last night (he’s not sure if she was hung over from alcohol or too much sex), is stage managing their removal.

Neal’s downstairs, waiting for them, debonair in the Baltic blue suit that Peter always thought made his eyes glow.

He can’t resist a dig, though. “You wear a suit to travel?”

“Standards have to be maintained. At least by some of us.”

“Are you sneering at my sport coat, Caffrey?”

“The fact that you’re even wearing a sport coat is really rather appalling. Hopefully, you aren’t wearing a short sleeved buttoned down with that.”

Peter ducks his head to hide the smile. _A month or less._

They linger over their last espresso, and Peter can’t help but gaze mournfully at shiny brass of the machine that dominates the center of the restaurant. If he has any regrets about taking this trip, they revolve solely around a future without tiny cups of perfectly brewed coffee.

He has to admit, the ride back to the airport by water taxi is much more pleasant than trying to manage everything on a bus crowded with hundreds of other travelers. They disembark and walk together to the terminal. This is truly the moment he’s been dreading, and he keeps repeating _a month or less, a month or less, a month or less_ to himself. He watches as Neal bids farewell to Elizabeth, their kiss anything but proper. He doesn’t hold a hand out to Neal; he just hauls him into his arms and kisses him as passionately as Neal just kissed his wife.

“Remember your promise, a month or less.” He has to whisper, the tears in his throat make it hard to speak.

“A month, or less. You’ll see me in a month or less.”

He slings an arm around El and they watch Neal disappear into the terminal. They check their luggage and are routed to the first class boarding line. Peter reaches into the inside pocket for their travel documents and pulls out a wrinkled envelope with his name on in. He’s standing there, holding it, seeing his name, seeing Neal’s handwriting.

El’s voice interrupts him. “Honey - I have the passports and boarding passes.”

Distracted, Peter stuffs the envelope back into his pocket and goes through security. He sets off the alarm and the guard asks him to check his pockets. He had forgotten to take out his wallet and his ID folder. The guard examines it and smiles, _bongiorono, Federale_. Marco Polo is a small airport and it’s a short walk to first class lounge. They wait about a half an hour before boarding, and Peter helps himself to one last cup of coffee. It’s not revolting, but if anything, its mediocrity brings him back to reality. He keeps patting the envelope in his pocket; he doesn’t want to read it until they’ve boarded the plane. He almost doesn’t want to read it at all.

Their flight is called and they board quickly. Elizabeth chuckles at the seating configuration and Peter laughs with her. The first class cabin on this flight lacks the cubicle feature of their outbound flight, and neither of them is disappointed at the lack of privacy. El’s been cured of her fascination with sex in public, or at least on an airplane.

A steward helps them settle in and Peter waves off the proffered glass of Prosecco. He buckles himself in and pulls out the letter.

“El, honey?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you know this says?”

“No. I picked it up and held onto it, but I never read it. It was for you.”

He turns the envelope over; it’s been opened and resealed.

“Neal may have added something to it. It was unopened when I gave it to him.”

“Do you think I should read it?”

“I think you _have_ to read it.”

Peter slides a finger under the flap and tears it opened. There is a single sheet of standard American letter-sized plain white bond, and three sheets of the smaller, A5 hotel stationary. He tucks those back into the envelope and back into his jacket pocket, and starts to read the letter Neal wrote to him a year ago.

 _Peter –  
I know you think I’m running away again, leaving you without saying goodbye. Taking the coward’s way out. And in a way, you are right. I am. But I have to leave, at least for a while and I hope I can make you understand why. _

_Everyone loves to call me unique, but they don’t realize that you are the truly exceptional one. You are a man filled with odd quirks and habits, and combined with your brilliant mind, you’d be insufferable except for the fact that you, Peter Burke, are a human being, a truly good man, and one who cares far too much. Once, I would have mocked that humanity, and I’ve certainly taken advantage of it, over and over again. But now, as our enforced relationship – okay – your ownership, my parole, comes to an end, I’ve come to realize that you are everything that I could have been, everything I _should_ have been had I not done everything wrong at from the beginning._

For years, I’ve convinced myself that it was your white picket fence life that I wanted, the settled comfort of hearth and home – things that had been denied to me as a child. But as our time winds down, I’ve come to realize something. It isn’t your life that I want, it’s you – and not in the way your thinking (though I do want that too). I want to _be_ Peter Burke– to have people look at me with trust and admiration, with respect, rather than tolerant amusement, mild affection or even thinly veiled contempt.

What was it that you said to me that first day? _“The amount of work I do equals certain things in the real world_.” I’ve finally realized that that I will never be able to charm or lie or steal what comes to you by the simple act of being the man you are. I’ve tried to mold myself into you by thinking “what would Peter do” in difficult circumstances, and it’s worked most of the time. But I still felt like a liar and a cheat – I’m borrowing and wearing you like a suit, and it feels unnatural and uncomfortable. I know it wouldn’t take much for me to get tired and frustrated with this role playing, and end up disappointing you, and failing myself.

There are no 12-step programs for reformed con artists. No sobriety chips or meetings in church basements where I could drink bad coffee and anonymously confess to all of the terrible things I’ve done. You – you and Elizabeth and the Bureau have been my support group for years. But it’s time for me to find out if I can stand on my own.

I need a year and maybe more, Peter. I need to find out if I can live within my own skin as Neal Caffrey, the person I want to be – not the composite created by the fake identities I’ve made for myself. You’ve always had faith in me – you may not have always trusted me, but you’ve always believed that I could be something better.

Do you remember the first time we met? We didn’t exactly linger and chat – but it was, for me, one of the most memorable moments of my life. Was it fate, karma, or just sheer dumb luck that put us both on the Rialto that evening. Next October, it will be eleven years. Where has the time gone? If you can bear one last grand, romantic gesture – meet me there, at the top of the Rialto Bridge. I’ve already talked to Elizabeth about it, and she doesn’t mind spending her anniversary in Venice.

I’ll be there, between 5 and 6 pm. I hope beyond words you will be too.

I love you, for all that you have done for me, for all that you have been to me and for everything that we could be, given time.

Neal

Peter doesn’t look up as passengers continue to fill the cabin. He re-reads Neal’s letter and then remembers that there is more. He pulls out the envelope with the rest of of it.

 _Peter –_

 _I don’t know where to begin. We’ve spent much of the past two weeks just living in the moment, or at least trying avoid talking the really important stuff. You don’t want to ask, and I just can’t bring myself to volunteer the information. Sound familiar?_

 _But that has to change, we can’t go on paying lip service to trust. A lot of this may make you angry, and a lot of it may not make any sense, but it’s the truth – all of it._

 _Those five missing months? The ones you thought I was on the run, holed up after a job gone bad or running some con? I wasn’t. I was at Quantico._

 _Yes, Quantico, at the FBI Training Academy. The new agent training program, not the National Academy for the local law and order types. And no, I am not an agent. It’s kind of hard to get one of those nice, shiny golden shields when you have a felony conviction and can’t even own a gun._

 _But as crazy as it sounds, I did complete the full training course._

 _About three months before my parole was up, James Bancroft showed up at my apartment with a proposal. Go to the Academy, complete the training, and come back to the Bureau as the lead analyst for the White Collar division, and report directly to him. He was sounding me out, he didn’t even want to approach the Academy with this bizarre request if I wasn’t interested. He told me I had two days to think about it. I didn’t need five minutes – I accepted his offer on the spot._

 _This was like the answer to my prayers – I wanted to stay with you, with the Bureau so badly, but on the other hand, I didn’t see how I could. I didn’t want to be a confidential informant for the rest of my life. That would make what was between us way too messy. The Jack Franklin problem was never far from my mind._

 _To say that it took a lot of convincing to get the Academy to accept my application is an understatement. Bancroft called in a career’s worth of favors, and it still took time. I didn’t know if I was going until a week before my parole was up._

 _I know what you’re thinking right now, why didn’t I tell you any of this? I’ve always said that you’re the only person I completely trust, and that’s the absolute truth. But you’re also the only person I hate to disappoint, even though I’ve let you down all the time. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to know if I washed out. I could live with Bancroft’s disappointment, but not yours – not for something as important as this._

 _The five months at the Academy were difficult – maybe even harder than four years in prison. And not for the reasons you may think. No one – not the students, not the instructors, knew who I was, even though I used my own name. The straight academics were a breeze, the mud was the worst part of the physical training and I still don’t like guns. It was the mental adjustments, the complete change in my point of reference. I had to stop thinking like a con artist or a CI. The first few weeks I got some really strange looks in class with my rather creative suggestions to problem solving. Since I am consititutionally incapable of keeping my opinions to myself, I had to learn and learn quickly._

 _I’m not going to bore you with the details of those five months, you’ve lived through them yourself. But the most terrifying moment was when the change in the guest lecturer was announced. Do you have any idea what it was like seeing your name and picture on the bulletin board and then have to listen to everyone talk about “Big Bad Peter Burke” for six weeks? One of the field counselors was a classmate of yours and he kept feeding us tales of your exploits. If I didn’t know you, I would have thought you were ten feet tall and could secure convictions with the sheer power of your mind. Then there are the Peter Burke groupies who know more about your career than even you do. We’re not talking about Lauren Cruz-types who do their disserations about cases you’ve worked on, these guys are practically stalkers._

 _For six weeks, it drove me out of my mind. And then your lecture (nice touch, having Diana and Jones do the war stories). Given our parting, I really didn’t know what to expect. It was rather unreal, sitting in the back, listening to the three of you talk about our work. You will have to applaud my improved impulse control – as much as I wanted to, I didn’t jump up and point out that it was my idea to jam Govat’s cell phone with incoming call. It got so bad, I left during the break and didn’t come back._

 _But none of this is really important, is it?_

 _You can’t bring yourself to really forgive me. I think you want to, but you don’t want to get hurt again. So you push me away. Instead of asking the question you wanted to ask (and I one I hoped you would), you freak out and accuse me of going back to the life. I know I should have told you all of this to your face, and a part of me wanted to – if just to see your reaction. To make you feel as bad as I did. But that would be as wrong as walking out on you again without saying goodbye. It would have betrayed everything I have tried to accomplish, everything I hoped to achieve._

 _I find I’ve run out of words. There is so much more than needs to be said, but not here, not like this. I’ll be back in New York in less than five weeks. There’s a little more travelling I’d like to do, the Aegean probably, before settling down in my new job. The one that starts December 1st, and I’ll be reporting to Bancroft. Yep, reporting to your boss’ boss. Funny thing how the FBI works, isn’t it? Who would have thought! Which means, for the month of December, I actually outrank you._

 _I hope this won’t be a problem, because I am going to enjoy every moment of it._

 _Neal_

 _PS – I don’t know how many times I’ve told you, but you DO have an amazing wife. She’s known about this from the beginning. I asked her not to tell you and she agreed, on two conditions. The first was that I couldn’t leave without saying goodbye – and I almost did (she stopped me). The second was that if you really needed to know where I was during my training, she could tell you._

 _I love you both and will see you soon.  
_

Peter is so involved with Neal’s letter that the minor commotion of a last minute boarding didn’t even register. He still can’t believe it, Neal. At Quantico. Of the myriad thoughts and feelings running through his brain, the first one is _I’m not crazy,_ closely followed by _I’m going to kill him_. He folds the letters up and tucks them carefully back into his jacket, and is surprised to find that his hands are shaking.

 _To ask for scraps and be given a feast_.

The doors of the plane are shut and it pushes away from the gate. The cabin crew takes their places for the pre-flight safety instruction and Peter finally gives a some attention to his surroundings. El looking at him, and Peter doesn’t think he’s ever seen such a huge, silly grin on her face. He doesn’t quite understand it, is she that happy about getting back to New York? He’ll be glad to get home too, but they have to endure nearly ten hours in flight and change of planes in Paris before getting there. Then she points to the passenger in seat across the aisle. Peter closes his eyes, afraid to look. But he does.

It’s Neal.

Of course it’s Neal. Who else would be sitting there, across from him in the first class cabin on a flight back to New York.

“I thought you said a month.”

“I said a month, maybe less.”

Peter looks at his watch. “I guess an hour and forty-five minutes qualifies as ‘maybe less.”

“You read it?”

“Yeah.”

“All of it?”

“Yup.”

“And?”

“And ...” He knows the pause is killing Neal.

“Peter?”

He can hear the nerves in Neal’s voice.

He doesn’t even try to fight the smile. “Analysts don’t outrank agents. Ever. Remember that and we’ll get along just fine.”

 _FIN_

**Author's Note:**

> This is the longest single continuous narrative I’ve ever written. It started with a single idea and took off. At times, I felt less like an author, and more like somebody holding the leash of an enormous plot bunny on a tear.
> 
> There are a lot of people I need to thank:
> 
>  
> 
> riazendira - My ever wonderful, ever terrific beta. Her thoughtful comments and corrections have helped immeasurably. Any errors are mine and mine alone.  
> photoash - Her timely advice and questions closed up a few plot holes that I overlooked.  
> elainasaunt - My Paris expert. If I’ve messed up Paris, I’ve done it for the sake of the plot, not because of any advice.  
> neifile7 - My Venice expert. If I’ve messed up Venice, it’s all my own fault. Neifile, a former resident of La Serenissma, provided excellent and copious information, answering all of my sometimes very silly questions.
> 
> The title of this fic, and the chapter titles are shameless ripped from one of my favorite songs, Art Garfunkel’s “All I Know.”


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